


Thirty Peculiar Days Since John and Sherlock Started Dating

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Christmas, Cock Rings, Cosplay, Costumes, Crossdressing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Desperation, Dog(s), Domestic, Double Dating, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Drunkenness, Explicit Sexual Content, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humiliation, Humor, Kidnapping, M/M, Making Out, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Oral Sex, Pets, Pirates, Public Display of Affection, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Shopping, Shower Sex, Uncle-Niece Relationship, Valentine's Day, Verbal Humiliation, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-14 17:30:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 31,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>John and Sherlock's life together has never been considered the norm, but even they have odd days.</i><br/> </p><p> </p><p>A connected series of ficlets for ericandy's <a href="http://ericandy.tumblr.com/post/26596382488/ericandys-30-day-otp-challenge">30 Day OTP Challenge</a> (tumblr).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August

**Author's Note:**

> **NB: Tags will be added as necessary** , but yeah sex will happen. So marked explicit ahead of time for that.
> 
> Each chapter will be a different month, and the months will follow consecutively. (We're starting with August, so we'll end on the third January following... if I did my maths right.)

John Watson was never a particularly romantic man. The closest any of his past lovers would have called him was ‘considerate,’ and that description came less frequently over the years. He could put on a show if he tried—make the nice dinner, buy the right wine or champagne, flowers and chocolates—but it rarely came to mind outside of anniversaries and Valentine’s, which also came less frequently over the years for John.

It was certainly something he was glad he wouldn’t be bothered with after he started dating Sherlock Holmes. Never mind the fact that the image of Sherlock showing stereotypical displays of fondness outside the bedroom tended to put John in a state of breathless giggles. But it wasn’t just that candlelit dinners and Sherlock didn’t go together. He and John had proved their affection for one another long before their relationship became sexually intimate. You don’t shoot a man for your new flatmate and think nothing will come of it. You don’t continue to shoot men and risk your life day after day and pretend it doesn’t mean anything. And Sherlock and John never pretended that far, even if they were more than a bit stubborn about everything else between them.

John and Sherlock didn’t greet each other with kisses outside their flat or crime scenes, they didn’t wrap around each other on the streets unless it was particularly nippy. They were grown, practical men, not adolescents in the throes of surging hormones. Sure, the sex was brilliant and loud and mind-blowing, but outside the privacy of 221B, whether they were picking up take-away or examining corpses, they didn’t cling to one another. They had always walked side-by-side, always sat close in the cabs. Outside of Baker Street, once they settled into this new aspect of their relationships, things weren’t all that different.

So when they finally slipped into a cab after a blistering, sticky August day spent plodding about the city to find a man who had framed his brother and wife’s deaths as suicides following an illicit affair, John slid to the far side of the seat to rest his head against the cool window. He closed his eyes, enjoying the brief relief on his sunburnt brow. He was thinking about how he would have to run down to the corner shop for some aloe when he felt Sherlock’s hand on his thigh.

Now, Sherlock could be just as horny and cheeky as the next healthy, functional adult in his prime. It wasn’t often displayed in the back of cabs, though, at least not since the initial thrill of their new relationship months ago. John cracked open his eyes and looked over at Sherlock with a curious grin, but Sherlock’s head was hung. He turned his hand over on John’s leg so his fingers curved into a gentle bowl.

John actually had to jog his heat-exhausted brain and consciously remember what to do next. When he did, he was tentative to put his hand in Sherlock’s. As soon as it was there, though, Sherlock closed his spindly fingers around John’s thicker hand and squeezed it tight. John scooted over on the seat. It was too warm and stuffy to even consider leaning into each other, but their arms were more comfortable this way. John nudged Sherlock’s shoulder, and he looked up. He was lacking the usual post-case high, and worry coursed through John in a heartbeat.

He mouthed his question of concern. Sherlock shook his head and squeezed John’s hand harder. He asked silently if it was about the case, and he received the barest nod. Sherlock was never emotionally invested in, well, much of anything, let alone cases. He was known for his insensitive nature when it came to gore and crimes, particularly when the three were mixed. But something about this case had gotten to him. John could have tried guessing, but, even as the man who knew Sherlock best, he doubted he’d be spot on with any theories. So he just squeezed back on Sherlock’s hand, smiled softly at the thumb that traced the hollows between the tendons of his fingers, and watched London go by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Holding hands


	2. September

Sherlock usually didn’t get cosy unless he wanted sex, or they’d just had sex. Even if they were at home watching crap telly, they closest to snuggling John and Sherlock got were one’s feet or head in the other’s lap. So when Sherlock sidled up against John in their usual booth at Angelo’s not five minutes after sitting down, John was incredulous.

“Really, Sherlock?” he grumbled under his breath.

“What?” Sherlock frowned, freezing with his arm millimetres away from settling on John’s shoulders. “You’re uncomfortable.” He retracted his arm and scooted away. “I did not believe you minded minor displays of affections.”

John blinked. He clamped his hand over his mouth to keep from giggling and disrupting the rest of the patrons.

Sherlock scowled at him. “Something amusing?”

“No, I just- Alright, yes.” John’s face was pink and he was grinning like a loon. “I don’t mind, really.”

“You reacted otherwise,” Sherlock sniffed.

“I thought you, erm,” John lowered his voice, “had an ulterior motive.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up, and then a sly smile crept across his face. “Is that really all you see me as, John?”

Now it was John’s turn to feel a bit offended. “Of course not,” he huffed and snatched up his menu, his face reddening further for a whole new reason. He glanced sideways at Sherlock. “But you and PDA don’t usually go hand-in-hand.”

“This is true,” he replied thoughtfully. “However, you’ve suggested before that I try things in our relationship without ‘over thinking’ them. I was simply taking the opportunity to act on a peculiar urge.”

“And urge to what? Cuddle?”

Sherlock fumbled with his own menu. “I suppose that is an adequate word.”

John slid over on the booth until his thigh and shoulder were pressed up against Sherlock’s. “Well, I like cuddling.”

“I have observed as much.”

He leaned up and pecked Sherlock’s cheek. He whispered, “Even if it’s not immediately preceding or following sex.” John enjoyed the slight reddening of Sherlock’s cheeks. He leaned into him comfortably, and, after a moment, he felt Sherlock’s arm creep around him and pull him a little closer. “So,” John said brightly. “What nutrients should I force you to consume tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2\. Cuddling somewhere


	3. October

John took it upon himself to accept Greg’s, and by extension Mycroft’s, request to babysit their five-year-old daughter while the two were in Paris for their anniversary. Such family-related things were often negotiated by the non-Holmes halves of the two couples. Not to say Sherlock didn’t like his niece. In fact, he adored and doted on her, which was as much as a shocker to everyone as when they found out Mycroft actually wanted a child, a daughter even. But while Sherlock didn’t mind entertaining the little girl for maybe an hour or two, even an entire afternoon if necessary, John expected he wasn’t going to be keen on having a kid around the flat for four days. His expectations were duly met.

“Lucy’s going to pay us a visit,” John said as he fixed dinner that evening.

Sherlock perked up, but in an instant his eyes narrowed. After a moment he said, “How long?”

“Four days.”

“John!” Sherlock cried in a strangled voice.

“She’s your niece, Sherlock.” John turned away from the stove.

“Yes, I’m quite aware of this fact. However, this flat is hardly suited to accommodate a child for such an extensive period of time.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “We’ll simply have to-”

“Make it suitable,” John said. He smiled to himself as Sherlock’s face fell, and continued to fall as he listed what kind of changes he was expecting. “Which means no toxic experiments, no bits of any sort of bodies—human or otherwise—no bloody guns going off, no weapons period.”

“You can’t expect-”

“I can,” he said sharply. “And I do. It’s only four days, Sherlock. You’ll survive.” He turned back to the stove and added, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and no sex.” He could actually hear Sherlock groan.

Despite a litany of complaints, Sherlock followed through with each of John’s demands. The kitchen was unrecognisable when Greg and Mycroft dropped Lucy off the following afternoon. She went right to Sherlock’s arms, and he swept her up and carried her and her suitcase upstairs. John listened patiently as Mycroft fretted, in his stately way, over every last detail. Finally, Greg told him to stop worrying so much and dragged him off with a last thanks to John.

The first day passed easily enough. Though John refused to have any of Sherlock’s experiments in sight whenever Lucy came over, he could never manage to stop Sherlock talking about them. He banned the gorier details, but otherwise it was a lost hope. All the same, Lucy was often enthralled by her uncle’s stories. If she had had any other two people for parents, they’d never let her spend another minute with Sherlock and John. As it was, having the British Government and a highly respected Detective Inspector as parents didn’t exactly lend to a normal upbringing. But there were some normal things Lucy liked to do, and that’s when John took over. The second afternoon of her stay found the two playing Mario Kart on John and Sherlock’s embarrassingly small television. Lucy didn’t seem to mind, though.

At one point, she turned around to look at her uncle sprawled on the couch reading from a medical encyclopaedia. “Want to play, Uncle Sherly?”

Sherlock peered over the pages. “Dull,” he murmured, and his eyes drifted back down.

The first time he had dismissed one of Lucy’s requests in such a way, John had nearly hounded him for it. But, oddly enough, it usually just made Lucy giggle. This time was no different, so she turned back to the telly and went another round with John.

That night, John got up to use the loo and heard subdued noises from the living room, sounding much like the game he’d been playing hours earlier. He didn’t shy away when he needed to chastise Lucy, but he didn’t like doing it. He gave her a chance to run back upstairs by taking his time in the bathroom. There was still a bluish glow coming from the telly, though, so John sighed and made his way through the kitchen.

It surprised him to hear Sherlock’s grumbled voice mixed with the game as he approached. The other side of the bed had been empty, but that in itself was nothing peculiar. John pinched the bridge of his nose, not relishing the prospect of having to chide Sherlock as well as a five-year-old.

But Sherlock was alone, cross-legged on the floor and crouched towards the TV. John walked in just as Sherlock came in second to last and nearly threw the controller down. John had to bite his lip hard.

He cleared his throat, making Sherlock jump slightly. He grinned down at the grown man. “What are you doing?”

“This game is infuriating,” he growled.

“Earlier it was ‘dull.’”

Sherlock eyed him sideways. He gestured to the console. “It’s a simple collection of programs and algorithms, and yet-”

“Your five-year-old niece could best you at it.” John plugged in the second controller and sat next to Sherlock on the floor. “This is what I mean when I tell you you’re over thinking things.” He met the scowl on Sherlock’s face with a soft smile. “I’m sure, given enough time, you could crack the pattern, but that’s not the point. It’s a children’s game. The point is to have fun, not solve some mathematics problem.” He put Sherlock’s controller back in his hands. “At least try to relax. Don’t take it so seriously.” John nudged his shoulder.

They played for an hour, Sherlock regularly cursing various NPCs, red shells, and banana peels. But he did improve, and he did relax some. John yawned pointedly, but Sherlock only told him to go to bed and kept playing.

Sherlock was asleep in bed when John woke up in the morning. He grinned to himself and left the bedroom quietly. That afternoon, it was his turn to catch up on some reading, and Lucy was ecstatic to have her uncle play with her. Sherlock was even smiling as he turned corner after corner, fell off courses, ran into walls, and lost every round to his niece by a long shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3\. **Gaming** /watching a movie
> 
> Not strictly Johnlock, but the idea was too cute to resist.


	4. November

When Sherlock strode into the kitchen one morning and declared they were going on a date, John was more than a little apprehensive. Looking back at all Sherlock had told him about his past romances—if they could be called such a sentimental thing—John wasn’t sure if the man knew what a run-of-the-mill date consisted of.

They went for an early dinner at a nice restaurant, during which Sherlock behaved, well, rather normal. They shared a bottle of wine, took their time with dessert, and went for a stroll in Regent’s Park. John’s anxiety about the whole affair had all but dissolved when Sherlock laced his fingers through John’s and dragged him to a recently vacated bench.

At once, John could tell something was bubbling inside Sherlock. His brow repeatedly knitted and loosened, his free hand fidgeted on his knee, and he wasn’t even looking at him. So John gave his hand a squeeze, bringing his attention around. “You alright?”

“Yes, fine.” Sherlock let go of John’s hand, tucked his arm about John’s shoulders, and tugged him close. He sat back stiffly on the bench.

John leaned into him. “You sure?”

“Fine is a relative state, John,” Sherlock said.

“That’s a no then, is it?” John looked up at him and sighed. “Something’s got you all worked up. Might as well get it out and be done with it.”

Sherlock abruptly retracted his arm and stood. He didn’t go anywhere, just stood in front of the bench for a moment. John waited as patiently as he could, but concern and annoyance were beginning to war within him. Just as he opened his mouth, Sherlock swirled around to face him. Those grey eyes, so often steely, warmed as they settled on John. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. “You know I’m rubbish when it comes to ordinary things.”

John assumed Sherlock was referring to their rather dull date, or dull by Sherlock’s standards. John had rather enjoyed the normalcy of it, even if it did make him a bit paranoid of ulterior motives. He smiled up at Sherlock. “Yeah, and I’m pretty used to you being anything but ordinary. So I guess we’re both a bit out of our element tonight.”

Sherlock frowned. “What? Why would you- Oh, the date? No, no.” He let out a breath. “There’s a particular matter I’ve concerned myself with for some time now. Three months, to be precise. Though I suppose in some respects the thought had crossed my mind on more than one occasion prior to that time, but it had always been rather fleeting. That is, I hadn’t considered it of much importance, not to us. Well, not to the type of people we are, to the kind of relationship we have. But recently I’ve begun to re-evaluate such a perspective.” He paused, his mind trailing off somewhere his words didn’t follow.

John gave him a moment, but then he leaned forward with his forearms on his knees. “Going to fill me in on any of this?”

“Of course, of course.” But he turned around, walked a few paces away, turned, and walked back.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, John. Oh,” he added thoughtfully. “I suppose you might misconstrue my current behaviour as such an indicator. I apologise, that was not my intent.”

“Then sit down and just talk to me.” John patted the cold bench. His face was beginning to numb a bit, but he didn’t want to disregard anything that had Sherlock so worked up and didn’t involve a dead body.

Sherlock sat promptly. “John,” he said in a rather meaningful way, and it made John sit straight up and stare at him. “John, what are your thoughts on marriage? Not in general of course, but as it pertains to you. Us, perhaps.”

John blinked. He could do little else for a moment while his mind, which had become so attuned to Sherlock’s peculiarities, temporarily shut down. Finally he worked his jaw open. “I, um, well. I never really thought of it, to be honest.”

“Never?” Sherlock raised a brow.

John shrugged. “Well, maybe in a passing sort of way. But I never sat down and really thought it over.” He smirked. “Seems a bit pedestrian, doesn’t it?”

“Under normal circumstances, I would be entirely in accord with that judgment.”

“But?”

Sherlock grumbled wordlessly and ran his hands rapidly back and forth through his curls, like he always did when particularly frustrated about something. “But you, John Watson, tend to take the most inane details of everyday life and make them something very... atypical.”

John pressed his face into Sherlock’s arm and grinned against the wool. “Sherlock Holmes, are you trying to propose to me?”

“‘Trying’ being the principal word,” Sherlock muttered.

John laughed and looped his arm through Sherlock’s. “Will it help if I say yes?”

“Immeasurably,” Sherlock sighed and rested his chin on John’s head.

“Good, because I’m saying yes anyway.”

Their noses had begun to redden, so they got up, wrapped around one another, and slowly made their way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4\. On a date


	5. December

It only took one holiday season at 221B for John to learn that, if he didn’t take down the decorations by New Year’s, they would invariably become part of Sherlock’s experiments. The first week of his first January in Baker Street, the entire flat smelt of burnt plastic. Every winter after that, all decorations were down promptly by the first of January.

This year, Sherlock apparently saw fit to help John. He had done this once before, a few years earlier, but John quickly discovered he was filching bits of tinsel and light bulbs and even an entire wreath, which of course had been what gave him away. John couldn’t fathom why Sherlock thought he could hide an entire wreath under his chair without John noticing. But it seemed his efforts were honest this time. John could only imagine how bored he found it all to be, but the gesture was incredibly endearing.

As John was closing up a box of lights, Sherlock called him over to the threshold to the kitchen. He pointed up. John arched his head back and found himself staring at a plastic sprig of mistletoe.

“Oh, god. That must have been Mrs. Hudson.” He reached up to take it down, and suddenly found one of Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his torso, pull him close, and the other gently holding the wrist of his raised hand away from the mistletoe. John lowered his gaze from the mistletoe to Sherlock, who leaned down and kissed John, soft and warm. John wrapped his other arm around Sherlock’s waist.

“Surprised you even know about mistletoe,” John murmured through a smile against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock leaned his forehead against John’s. “Now that I can be certain you plan to stay with me, I intend to use every passing excuse to do that.”

“You never need an excuse.” John closed his eyes and kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “And it didn’t take an engagement to be certain I’d stay with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5\. Kissing


	6. January

It was a Sunday, and London was covered in a dangerous layer of ice. No one had any intention of going out unless absolutely necessary. John had no such plans for himself, so he started a fire as soon as he got up and pushed his chair closer to the hearth to warm. He had doubled his socks and jumpers straight out of bed, but he could still feel the chill. He went about making tea and breakfast, hoping to get to the fireside as soon as possible.

As he was scrambling eggs, Sherlock strolled out of the bedroom yawning. “Morning.”

“Morn- Sherlock, you’re wearing one of my jumpers.”

Sherlock looked down at the oatmeal-coloured fabric. “I thought I was, yes.”

John rolled his eyes. “Why?”

“Someone thought it was necessary to wash all of my dressing gowns at the same time.” He flopped languidly into a chair.

“What about the one your mum sent you for Christmas?” John had to turn back to the eggs as he asked this, and he immediately bit his lip to keep from giggling.

Sherlock was exasperated as he began to respond, “That horrendous thing that looks like Mrs. Hudson’s drapes? Honestly, J-” He broke off and cried out, “You did it intentionally!”

John stepped back from the stove as he doubled over. “Come on,” he wheezed. “Try it on. It’s from your mum, after all.”

“Absolutely not.”

“For me?” John tried to look adoring, but it was too hard not to grin like an idiot. “Please?”

“The eggs are burning, John,” Sherlock sneered.

John whipped quickly back to the stove. Of course the eggs were fine, but when he turned around Sherlock was striding past the fridge into the back hall. “Oh, relax! I was teasing.”

Sherlock only shouted back from the bedroom, “The eggs, John. The eggs.”

He resigned himself to finishing breakfast. As he was scraping the eggs onto two plates, he felt something drape over his shoulders. “Oh, no. No you don’t.” He put the pan down and tried shrugging off the horrific black-and-citrus floral material.

Sherlock only pulled the ties around his waist and pulled them in a tight knot. “Since you’re so keen on seeing it worn.”

It looked ridiculous hanging off John at the waist. Of course, it would look ridiculous even properly worn. “It really is a bit, um...” John looked down at the thing.

“Blindingly repulsive?”

John slapped his hand over his mouth as an unattractive snort issued forth. “Oh god, I feel awful. Your mother-”

“Don’t.” Sherlock loosed the knot and folded the dressing gown over his arm. As he carried it back to the bedroom, he called over his shoulder, “It was probably intended for Mycroft anyway.”

It was several more minutes before John could breathe properly again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6\. Wearing each others' clothes
> 
> Thanks to [Meg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/megg33k) & Turtle for brainstorming with me on this bout of giggles. Oh, the ideas that DIDN'T make it in here...


	7. February

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the missed day. Been sick. Will try to do two tomorrow or the day after. ♥

John came up behind Sherlock while he was at his experiments and wrapped a blindfold over his eyes. Well, the blindfold was just John’s striped tie. Sherlock’s hands froze on his microscope and his back straightened.

“Should I even bother asking?” Sherlock said.

“No,” John whispered against his ear and rested his hands lightly on Sherlock’s shoulders. He felt the slightest shiver beneath the smooth fabric. He ran his palms down Sherlock’s arms and pulled his hands from the microscope.

Sherlock allowed himself to be led from the kitchen to the bedroom, and John watched a slow smile creep onto his face. He pushed Sherlock back to sit on the bed and straddled his lap. He cupped those sharp cheekbones and pressed his mouth to the other man’s. Sherlock kissed back eagerly, his hands going instantly to John’s waist. He started and pulled back. “What are you wearing?”

John couldn’t keep a few giggles from emerging. He nibbled Sherlock’s bottom lip briefly before stepping back, taking the blindfold with him. He relished the pure astonishment that fell across Sherlock’s expression. It was such a rare treat, and that alone made the ridiculous getup worth it.

And it was so very ridiculous. His first idea had been to go for the cheap Halloween version, but that just didn’t do Sherlock Holmes justice. So John did a bit of research and, after a few trips to some novelty thrift stores, managed to come up with something a little more historically accurate: linen shirt, woollen breeches, leather jerkin, even a cloth cap, and finished off with a wide deep red sash.

When Sherlock didn’t say anything for nearly a full minute, John burst into laughter. He collapsed on the bed beside Sherlock, falling back with his hands to his stomach. “Your face,” he gasped.

Sherlock lay back and turned his head. “John, why are you dressed like a pirate?”

“Because,” John said, barely catching his breath. He rolled onto his side and folded his arm under his head as the cap slipped off. “You’re Sherlock Holmes, and I didn’t have a bloody clue what to get you for Valentine’s Day.”

“Valen-” Panic washed across Sherlock’s face. “Oh, John. Unnecessary. Completely, entirely unnecessary. I-”

“It’s alright,” John chuckled. “I knew you wouldn’t think of it.” He combed his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “It’s fine, I wasn’t expecting anything. Just you.” He traced the curve behind Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock caught his hand and brought it down to his mouth, where he kissed the palm. “Well you certainly look... adorable.”

John raised a brow. “Not an adjective I usually hear come out of your mouth.”

“Hush, and accept the compliment.”

“Thanks.” John grinned. “So, aren’t you wondering how-”

“Mycroft, of course,” Sherlock sighed, though perhaps with a milligram less of annoyance than he usually had when speaking of his brother. “No one else you know would have such insight.” He brushed his thumb over John’s lips. “However, I might disappoint you.”

John frowned. “How so?”

“It’s not a fetish. It’s purely-”

“Scientific?” John teased.

“Actually, it’s rather childish. It’s a rare collection of data I simply cannot bring myself to delete. I suppose I retain a boyish fascination with the topic.” He ran his fingers down the leather jerkin.

“You want to try it on?”

Sherlock’s eyes shot up to John’s. “You humour me far too often, John Watson.”

“I know. I’ll call in the favour one day.” John sat up and began to disrobe. He removed the sash first, which Sherlock ran through his hands nearly mesmerized. “Can’t put them on over that.” John pointed to Sherlock’s clothes.

Sherlock laid the sash over his knees and worked at his buttons. In a few minutes they were both down to their boxers, shivering in the winter chill that permeated even the most well-insulated houses, of which 221B Baker Street was not. John snatched up Sherlock’s shirt and pulled it on while Sherlock dressed in the costume. John watched the outfit grow more alive on Sherlock’s form, as if it expelled those long limbs from thin air. They had all felt a bit baggy on him, and yet somehow they draped Sherlock’s body perfectly.

“Well?” Sherlock spread his arms.

John licked his lips. “May not be one of your fetishes, but I think I might be developing it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock dropped his arms. He opened his mouth, with John fully expecting a lecture on the psychology of fetishes, and instead said, “You just enjoy anything that shows off my body.” He smirked devilishly.

John reached out and grabbed his hips, pulling him forward until his legs were against the mattress. John untucked the shirt enough to slip his hands underneath and up Sherlock’s torso. “Nothing shows it off better than your own skin.”

Sherlock leaned into his touch. “Is that a proposition, Mr. Watson?”

“It might just be, Mr. Holmes. It might just be.” John untied the sash, keeping it pulled against his low back, and, with red wrapped around each hand, he drew Sherlock on top of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7\. Cosplaying


	8. March

Sherlock had, unsurprisingly, declined John’s invitation to take a walk in the chilly, though rather sunny afternoon. It was only a short, brisk stroll around the block, though. Not long after leaving, John was walking back up to the flat. Sherlock was sitting at the table between the windows, his gazed fixed on his laptop. Apparently on something fascinating, as he didn’t even look up when John walked in.

“Back,” John said as he shrugged out of his coat. The sound of the laptop snapping shut made him jump. He looked over and saw Sherlock staring a bit wide-eyed at him. “What?”

“I thought you’d be longer, that’s all.” Sherlock looked away, suddenly interested in a few sheets of composition beside his now closed laptop.

John looked between Sherlock’s averted gaze and the fingers that still rested none too subtly on the computer. He walked over and held out his hand. Sherlock looked up and frowned as if perplexed, but John was buying none of that. “Christmas is past, and my birthday isn’t even close. So you’ve got no excuse to be hiding things. Do we really need to do the whole honesty conversation again? You better not have deleted it.”

Sherlock only turned his face away and slid the laptop perhaps a centimetre toward John. John pulled it over and opened it, moving to stand beside Sherlock’s chair. When it came out of sleep mode, John just stared.

For a moment, it was simply out of shock. Despite the last several months—nearly a year now—despite being engaged to the man, John would never have expected Sherlock to be looking at prostate massagers. After the initial blow passed, though, John kept rigid in an attempt to not embarrass Sherlock further by laughing in his face.

Sherlock broke the silence with a muttered, “Just research.”

John cracked a grin. “For a case?”

“Obviously not.” Sherlock glared sideways at him. That wouldn’t do; angrily defensive Sherlock was hard to bring out of his dark moods.

“Planning to go somewhere without me?” John teased.

“No, of course not!” Now he looked a bit scandalised, which was a bit better.

John smoothed his smile into something more comforting. “I’m just curious.”

Sherlock glanced at the screen before looking back up at John. “I’ve noticed that whoever is receiving prostate stimulus during intercourse often has the more intense orgasm. I was simply looking for a way in which we could both benefit, and fingering doesn’t seem very ideal, and neither does a basic dildo.” He made an exasperated sound. “I had considered making it a surprise, especially after my oversight of Valentine’s Day. At the very least as reciprocation- Why are you laughing, John?”

John had covered his mouth, but that hardly hid the muffled sounds. He dropped his hand. “Because you’re ridiculous and adorable.”

Sherlock practically bristled. “Excuse me?”

John cupped his face, leaned forward, and gave him a light kiss. “It’s sweet that you’re concerned about our mutual satisfaction.”

“Oh.”

He leaned in so his lips brushed Sherlock’s ear and whispered, “And I can be certain it’s not selfish considering how often you’re the one whose prostate is being stimulated.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes, well. I do care about you, John.”

“I know.” John kissed the side of Sherlock’s temple. Then he pushed back Sherlock’s chair and sat in his lap, not commenting on the rather interested spot pressing against his bum. “Which ones were you thinking about?” He pulled the laptop in front of them as Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his waist and rested his chin on John’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8\. Shopping
> 
> I have to admit, this is a bit inspired by [pennydreadful](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pennydreadful). If you've never read her work, dear god why are you bothering with my dabblings? GO FORTH.


	9. April

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Turtle, Susan, and Prof for the brainstorming shenanigans ♥

In the back of the cab, John looked sideways at Sherlock and heaved a sigh. “Would you stop scowling?”

“Why did you ever agree to this, John?” Sherlock snarled, arms crossed childlike over his chest.

“Because,” John said, tugging Sherlock’s arm loose to wrap his own around it, “this is the sort of thing normal families do. Now and then we have dinner with each other.”

“But-”

John pressed his free hand briefly over Sherlock’s mouth. “You and Mycroft might not fall under the category of ‘normal,’ but Greg and I do. Though, your brotherly relationship really isn’t that far off the scale.”

Sherlock glared out the window at the rain that had started halfway between Baker Street and the restaurant. “Your elder sibling doesn’t-”

“Let’s not start that.” John pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering not for the first time if this was such a good idea. It’d been Greg’s, but at the time he proposed it, about a week ago at the pub, it seemed like a worthwhile effort. “Can you at least try to be civil with your brother tonight?”

“If the smug git can do the same,” he muttered.

They dashed from cab to restaurant, neither of them having thought to bring an umbrella. Mycroft and Greg were already at their table. John gave Sherlock’s sleeve a subtle warning tug before they walked over. They greeted each other, John and Greg the only ones managing a decent smile. There was a bottle of wine already on the table, and after the several excruciating seconds of silence that followed John and Sherlock’s arrival, Greg opened it and poured.

“Cheers,” John said as Greg handed him his glass. “How’s Lucy?”

“Great, she’s doing great.” He passed a glass to Sherlock, who accepted it with a curt nod. “Did I tell you? She’s calling you Uncle John now.”

“Really?” All the tension momentarily vanished as John’s chest swelled. Of course, the feeling was short-lived.

“Unsurprising,” Sherlock murmured into his glass.

“And yet I’m sure John still finds it endearing,” Mycroft said. He turned with a slightly less rigid smile to John. “She truly adores you.”

“Oh, well, she loves Sherlock, too.” John snatched up his glass and took a drink.

“Yes, she does love Uncle Sherly.”

John braced himself for the impending chaos, but their server had the grace to show up at that moment to take their orders. It allowed for Sherlock to calm down, at least a little bit. Or so John thought.

“Fatherhood’s treating you well, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as their waiter walked off with their menus.

John knew what was coming next. A glance in Greg’s direction said so did he. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion, unable to do a thing about it, unable to clamp Sherlock’s mouth shut and bolt it that way.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, giving off an air of complete ease. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to become even more sedentary.” Before anyone could interject, and everyone clearly wanted to for one reason or another, Sherlock continued, “It’s really a shame, considering how athletically hopeful you were as a youth.”

Everyone’s mouth snapped shut, and Greg turned to Mycroft. “What, really?”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock started in before Mycroft could even attempt to answer for himself. “Cricket, football. Even rugby for a couple years. Mycroft was quite the athlete.”

Part of John wanted to laugh, part of him felt guilty for that urge, and a third part was panicking in anticipation for the inevitable explosion. Mycroft, for his part, seemed suddenly intent on his wine, avoiding the gleaming humour growing in Greg’s eyes.

Sherlock let out a fairly dramatic sigh. “It’s rather unfortunate his penchant for pastries and politics got in the way of all that blossoming stardom.”

“‘Blossoming stardom?’” Greg glanced only briefly at Sherlock, his focus otherwise entirely on his husband and his failing struggle to keep a straight face.

“An exaggeration,” Mycroft grumbled. “I assure you.”

“Don’t be so modest, dear brother.” Sherlock’s smile was practically Cheshire-like now. “Mycroft here was offered more than one full scholarship for his prowess on the field, not just in the stacks.”

Their food arrived, which was probably for the best, though neither Holmes seemed particularly keen on eating at that moment. However, Sherlock made a show of it, commenting on how delicious Mycroft’s lobster looked.

John felt that went a bit too far, even when it came to Mycroft. At least while they were trying to have a semi-amiable evening. “What about you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked at him with sudden suspicion. “What about me?”

“What were you aiming for as a kid? Aside from a pirate that is.”

Greg nearly choked on the bite he’d just taken. “A what?”

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth curled up ever so slightly.

“Yeah,” John said with an extreme effort to keep a casual tone. “Mycroft never told you that? Sherlock wanted to be a pirate when he was little.”

“But I don’t think I ever told you about his first mate, John.” Mycroft eyed Sherlock with a malicious grin.

John put down his silverware and cleared his throat. “No, you definitely didn’t.”

“First Mate Socks.”

“Socks?” John bit his lip hard.

“I was five,” Sherlock growled under his breath.

“The fairly senile family cat. He’d been around since before I was born, so you can imagine the state he was in by the time he and Sherlock shipped off together.”

“‘Socks,’ though?” Greg said. “Really?”

“Father’s idea,” Mycroft sighed. “According to Mummy, he just brought home a kitten one day and named it Socks. He was so attached to it, she couldn’t bear to tell him off.”

“John,” Sherlock said abruptly and urgently. “Your turn.”

“Hm?” John turned to him.

“What profession were you intent upon in your youth?”

“Oh.” John shrugged. “I was always pretty keen on becoming a doctor. My dad was one. There was a spell where I wanted to be a musician, but then I realised I wasn’t any good at it.”

“What made you join the army?” Greg said.

“Honestly, it was a bit of an escape for me. Daft, I know. Nothing patriotic about it, though my grandfather was in the navy during the war. What about you?”

“God, I don’t even remember.”

“Liar,” Mycroft and Sherlock said in unison. Mycroft quickly moved away from the moment. “You certainly do remember.”

Greg leaned forward on the table toward John. “The curse of being married to a Holmes. You sure you want it?”

John grinned. “Oh, I’ve had it for a while. So come on, what was it?”

He looked briefly at all of them before staring down at his plate. “Just this.”

“What do you mean?” John frowned, watching from the corner of his eye as Mycroft’s own brow creased.

“I always wanted to work in law enforcement.” He gave a mild shrug. “Just a police officer at first, didn’t have a bloody clue what a detective inspector was when I was a kid. But, as far back as I can remember, this is what I wanted to do.”

There was a moment of silence, broken when Mycroft wrapped his arm around Greg and said, “And you’re brilliant at it.”

John nodded. “I’ll second that. And, hey, at least one of us here has a proper career.”

“No, Mycroft,” Sherlock said in a deadpan voice, “being the British government does not count as a proper career.”

Before things could take a sour turn again, John raised his glass. “To Scotland Yard’s finest.”

Sherlock swirled his wine nonchalantly before raising it and adding dryly, “Certainly the best it has to offer.”

No one said anything, but each of them knew what high praise that was coming from Sherlock Holmes. Under the table, John sought out his hand and gave it a squeeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9\. Hanging out with friends


	10. May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY IT JUST HAPPENED I DIDN'T MEAN FOR IT TO.

John had started the day telling himself it wasn’t nearly as bad as “The Geek Interpreter” case. Really, he hadn’t expected dressing vaguely as a cat would be more embarrassing than dressing and acting like a ninja—on film. But as the day went on, he had to convince himself as much as Sherlock that blending in was the best tactic. That didn’t help the fact that he felt absolutely ridiculous, even if their pseudo-costumes weren’t fractionally as outrageous as some of the other animal getups walking around the convention floor of the five-star hotel.

As they waded through the intermittent crowds, John felt they were more and more conspicuous. He tried to tell himself he was just being paranoid. There were plenty of people in attendance who weren’t dressed up, though, so why had he been so convinced they couldn’t as well.

“You were right,” Sherlock said under his breath beside him.

“About?”

“Costumes. There are far too many recording devices here.”

John glanced around the crowd of ears, tails, fur, scales, beaks, wings. Of course there were an overwhelming number of cameras. “Oh?”

“I’d rather avoid another ‘Hat-Man and Robin’ phase, wouldn’t you?” He looked down at John, and even through the ridiculous wolf mask, John could see him grinning. “Good thing we opted for full facial coverage.” Sherlock tapped John’s orange cat mask.

“These ears are driving me mad, though. Do yours itch?” John had to regularly force himself not to fidget with the band on his head.

“Not particularly, no.”

“You and your damn curls.” John reached up and twisted a couple fingers in the rings at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. He felt Sherlock lean into the touch, though only briefly.

“Come, John. We need to concentrate.”

John grinned and lowered his hand. “Yes, alright. It’s not even noon yet, though. I thought all of the abductions happened well after noon?”

“They do, but that doesn’t mean our culprit isn’t present before then.”

“Yes, but how-” John broke off when he felt a slight tug on his trousers. For a moment he had the urge to swing around and hit whatever pervert had the nerve, but he quickly remembered he had a faux fur tail attached to his back belt loop. He looked over his shoulder and saw a little girl no older than four or five giving the orange tabby tail a gleeful tug.

“Maria, stop that!” The girl’s mother rushed over and pulled her daughter’s hands away. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” John said, turning to them. He squatted in front of the girl. “You must like cats.”

She nodded eagerly, her gaze resting just above John’s face. John tilted his chin down and she reached out to rub the matching ears. “So fuzzy!” she squealed.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was urgent.

“I have to go now,” John said to the girl.

She looked so suddenly sad, John whipped off his headband and put it on her.

“Oh, that’s really unnecessary,” the mother said. “Maria, give the nice man back-”

“Don’t worry.” John stood and scratched his much relieved scalp. “Made my head itch anyway.”

“John,” Sherlock repeated, sounding more impatient.

“Bye.” John waved at the girl as she squeaked a thank you and was led off by her mother. He turned, expecting to have to run after Sherlock, only to run right into his chest instead. He was staring past John, though. “What?” John looked over his shoulder.

Sherlock glanced down at him. “I believe you just gave our next victim your ears.”

Panic took hold of John and he frantically began searching the crowd for the little girl, but she had already been enveloped by the mass of people. “Are you sure?”

“Honestly,” Sherlock sighed. “You know profiling techniques by now, John. I’m surprised you didn’t say anything.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” John snapped. He couldn’t even recognize the girl’s mother in the crowd, though he hadn’t really taken careful notice of her.

“I didn’t want to unnecessarily alarm the mother.”

“I can’t find her, Sherlock. And since when did you care about alarming people?”

Another longsuffering sigh escaped Sherlock’s mouth, and if John hadn’t been so busy trying to find the girl, he’d have smacked him. “Raising the alarm would have caused a scene, which would alert the culprit of our presence, and we would lose the chance to-”

This time John did turn around and slap Sherlock. He didn’t care if they drew a more than a few stares. He had the wherewithal to lower his voice, though, and hissed, “You’re using her as bait?”

“It’s an unexpected opportunity, but one-”

John didn’t hear the rest of what he had to say. He turned around and stormed off into the crowd, roughly in the direction Maria and her mother had gone.

As noon came and went, anxiety tightened around John’s throat and knotted his stomach. Maybe they had left the convention already. These things had a tendency to grow less family-friendly as the day progressed.

A few hours after he gave his cat ears to the little girl, he felt a familiar grip on his shoulder. He brushed it away without even turning to face him. “Unless you’ve found her, I don’t-”

“I found her.”

John whirled around. “Where? Is she alright?”

“Yes. I caught up to her and her mother about ten minutes after you went off.”

Somehow, the knowledge that Sherlock had of course located them so easily only made John angrier.

“And our culprit has been taken into custody.”

It was obvious Sherlock expected this to make John pleased. He was anything but. He made for the exit, tearing off the mask and tail in the process and chucking them into the next bin he passed. Once outside the hotel, he kept walking at a clipped pace before he even considered hailing a cab. Not that it was any use against Sherlock’s longer strides.

“John, she’s safe. And the man-”

John turned suddenly, forcing Sherlock to stop abruptly in his tracks. He’d also done away with his disguise. “You used her as bait, Sherlock. A little girl.”

Sherlock searched John’s face, looking sincerely confused about his fury. “I kept a careful eye on her, as well as probable suspects. He never even got to her, John. Neither she nor her mother even knew-”

“That’s not the point!” John covered his face and scrubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes.

After a moment, Sherlock’s voice came quietly, “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t.” John scowled. “God, Sherlock. What if it was Lucy?” Just saying the words made him want to be sick. “What if she was the little girl being used as bait? Would you really risk her wellbeing? Wouldn’t you want someone to tell Greg or Mycroft or us if they thought she was in danger? Even if it meant letting the guy get away this one day, wouldn’t you rather be tipped off so you could keep her safe?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but John already knew what he would hear. His scowl deepened and he walked off again. He didn’t want to hear it, couldn’t hear it, couldn’t listen to Sherlock say he would risk his niece’s- their niece’s life because it was logical. Logic be damned.

The next time Sherlock caught up with him, it was half a block down. John’s legs were hurting from walking so quickly with his muscles as taut as they were, so he finally tried hailing a cab. Sherlock’s hand slipped into his. When he tried jerking it away, Sherlock gripped it too tightly. So tight it nearly hurt.

“I didn’t think,” Sherlock whispered.

John froze. He lowered the arm he had raised for a taxi and looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock looked absolutely devastated. Ashen, his expression drawn down in fear.

“Of course I would want to know.” He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his forehead against John’s. “I’m sorry.”

That was it. No explanation about the importance of logic, about the importance of the case. He didn’t even try to defend himself with some excuse about being in the moment, in the rush of the case that always washed sentiment right down the drain.

John finally got a cab and nudged Sherlock into it. He kept his hand tightly around John’s the entire ride home, and lowered his forehead to John’s shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. When they reached Baker Street, Sherlock let go of John’s hand and went ahead while John paid the fare.

Upstairs in the flat, Sherlock was curled tight on the sofa with his back to the room. He still had his bloody coat and shoes on, too. John took the time to remove his jacket and hang it up, went to the kitchen to fill the kettle and set out a couple mugs, and take off his shoes before he went over to the sofa.

He sat on the floor with his back against the cushions and leaned his head back until it rested on Sherlock’s coat. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.

“Yes you did,” Sherlock’s voice came, muffled and strained.

“Not like this.” John turned around so his side was parallel to Sherlock’s back. He reached up and combed his fingers through his thick curls. “I just wanted you to understand. I didn’t mean for it to upset you this much.”

Sherlock finally turned over onto his back. “I don’t understand, though. Before Lucy, before you-”

John got up and made him lift his head so he could sit under it. “I know,” he whispered as he resumed stroking Sherlock’s hair. “This sentiment stuff is still pretty confusing for you.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Things were exceedingly easier before you came along.”

John’s chest tightened and his hand stilled.

“No, John.” Sherlock sat up. “I didn’t mean-”

The kettle whistled, and John got up and walked out of the room. He heard Sherlock scurry after him, but he didn’t acknowledge him. He turned off the kettle, left the cups empty, and headed to the bedroom.

“John, what are you doing?”

“Can’t you deduce?” John said. It sounded more like a sneer than he meant it to, but he couldn’t be arsed to care at the moment. He gathered up his pyjamas and pillows and a change of clothes, brushed by Sherlock and out to the landing. He was up the stairs and in his old room before he stopped moving. He dumped his things on the bed and stood still for a moment. When he turned around, Sherlock was standing in the doorway, looking desperately at him.

“I didn’t mean-”

“Yes, Sherlock, you did mean.” He was seething now. “You always say what you mean. You say exactly what you mean.”

Sherlock just stared wide-eyed, his mouth shut.

“And you’re right. It’s easier not having people to care about. It’s easier when you don’t even care about yourself. But guess what, Sherlock. It’s not supposed to be easy. Friends, family, love—none of it is meant to be easy. It’s supposed to be difficult and drive you mad, and it’s impossible to dissect and understand because sentiment doesn’t work like one of your god damn experiments. And if that’s too hard for you, then you can start looking for a new flatmate. Now get out.”

He had flung his arm up to point out of the room, and it was shaking. Sherlock stood stock still for a second, but he didn’t argue. He dropped his head and left, closing the door on his way.

John collapsed on the bed trembling. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and slowly forced his body to calm, even if his mind remained chaotic. He recited in whispers each individual muscle until they were no longer a mass of tension. The downside was that he suddenly had to pee. After a minute of controlled breathing, he got up and opened the door.

He nearly walked into the cup and saucer on the floor. His first urge was an ugly one. He just wanted to punt it down the stairs and leave it for Sherlock to clean up. But he bent down and picked it up, put it on the nightstand, and crept downstairs. He didn’t come across Sherlock, and the second cup was still empty beside the kettle. As he approached the bathroom, though, he heard Sherlock’s voice coming through the closed bedroom door. He shamelessly stopped and listened.

“Because you understand these things. I still don’t comprehend the insanity that took me when I proposed to him.”

John’s stomach twisted, and he began mentally tracking down his suitcase.

“Yes, I understand that it doesn’t make sense. That’s the problem.”

He put his hand to the knob of the bathroom door. He was fairly certain the suitcase was actually upstairs, which would make things minutely less difficult.

“What do you mean, ‘it’s normal’? How can this be normal? If this is normal, I don’t want it.”

He twisted the knob and opened the door.

“Because I can’t do it.”

He flipped on the light.

“I can’t lose him, Molly. I can’t.”

John leaned heavily against the sink.

“I already apologised. I made him tea. Yes, I made him tea. Why are you laughing? This isn’t amusing, Molly. I don’t know what to do. I don’t have any data on this.”

At this point, John could imagine the other side of the conversation. Molly’s involuntary giggling, the immediate apology, her trying to explain to Sherlock anything of this nature.

John opened the door without knocking. He walked up to the stricken, suddenly mute Sherlock and grabbed his mobile. “He’ll text you later,” he said before hanging up and tossing the phone on the bed. He smacked Sherlock, leaving a smarting mark on his cheek, before grabbing his face and kissing him.

Those lanky arms wrapped around John and pulled him close. He could feel Sherlock shaking against him. “Please don’t leave, John. I know it’s hard. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Just don’t leave.”

“I won’t.” John gathered two fistfuls of Sherlock’s jacket, that stupid coat finally having been discarded, and pressed his forehead into Sherlock’s collarbone. “I won’t. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10\. With animal ears
> 
> This one totally got away from me (and the prompt). I swear tomorrow will be entirely fluffy and silly.


	11. June

John rapped his knuckled on the bedroom door for the fourth time in the last ten minutes. “We’re going to be late, Sherlock.”

“This is ridiculous, John,” Sherlock grumbled back from the other side.

“Worse than the ninjas?” John smirked.

“Yes. At least that was for a case.”

“And this is for our niece’s sixth birthday party. Really, what’s more important?”

“Yet I have a sneaking suspicion it was her fathers who planted the idea.” The door swung open. “Humiliating is an understatement.”

John grinned broadly at the sight before him. Sherlock was the spitting image of Luigi, fake moustache and all. Not that John had much room to speak in his Mario costume, but he couldn’t hold back a snort. “Wow.”

Sherlock scowled. “I’m going to kill Mycroft.”

“Oh, come on. At least you’re not doing this alone. Besides, just try to think about how excited Lucy’s going to be.”

Sherlock looked at him, completely exasperated. “How are you not mortified?”

“Love,” John said, putting his hand on the green shirtsleeve. “I’ve been a ninja and a cat at your side, and none of these amounts to some of the embarrassing positions I put myself in at uni and in the army.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked. “And you have yet to regale me with these stories?”

“They happened. Doesn’t mean I’m proud of them, nor do I care to relive them.”

“It may be the only way to sustain my sanity today.”

John rolled his eyes and clapped Sherlock on the back. “Come on, Luigi. We’ve got a party to get to.”

Despite his talk, John was perfectly happy to remove hat, gloves, and moustache for the cab ride over, the top of the dungarees concealed by their coats. Once outside Mycroft and Greg’s house, though, the telling details went back in place, and the coats came off and were folded over their arms.

“Pretend to enjoy yourself at least,” John muttered out of the corner of his mouth as they walked up to the front stoop. “For Lucy’s sake.” He rang the bell, and they were greeted almost instantly by the birthday girl herself.

Lucy’s face lit up like fireworks. She herself was wearing a Yoshi hoodie, her face occupying the cartoon dinosaur’s gaping mouth. She squealed and leapt right into Sherlock’s arms. John read the sincerity in Sherlock’s content expression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11\. Wearing [kigurumis](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kigurumi)


	12. July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Megalicious](http://archiveofourown.org/users/megg33k) for her help!

“Well that’s surreal,” John murmured, staring at his laptop.

“What is?”

“Huh?” John looked over the top of the screen at Sherlock, who was working away at his own.

Sherlock glanced up. “What’s surreal?”

“Oh.” He hadn’t even realised he had said anything aloud. “I was reading through comments on my blog. There’s one here from my first proper girlfriend.” He laughed at the faint twitch in Sherlock’s expression. “I forget how jealous you can be. Relax, love. We were thirteen.”

“Hmph,” was all Sherlock had in response before going back to work.

John stared at him grinning until he finally looked back up.

Sherlock frowned. “What?”

“You’re hot when you’re jealous.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and started typing again, though there was a definite hitch in his fingers’ movements.

John closed his laptop and rose, walked around the table, and folded his arms on Sherlock’s head.

“I’m trying to work, John.”

“I promise, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Why do you think I’m worried?” Sherlock twisted around, making John straighten up. “Concern is hardly a rational reaction considering your relationship with her was over two decades ago, and we’re engaged.”

John crossed his arms and just smirked down at Sherlock. “Sherlock, how long have we been together? Intimately.”

Sherlock narrowed his gaze. “Almost a year and a half.”

“And you were attracted to me for a while before that, right?”

Sherlock nodded stiffly.

“So in the last couple years—at least—when has any of this,” he gestured between them, “been rational.”

Sherlock just scowled and turned back to his computer.

John kissed the top of his head. “It’s normal to be jealous. I’m just reassuring you, I’m yours all yours.”

“I’m not jealous of your adolescent relationship, John,” he huffed.

“Of course not.” John went back to his seat and opened up his laptop. After a moment, he realised he was the only one typing. He raised his gaze and found Sherlock frowning at his screen. “But you are jealous.”

Sherlock’s eyes shot up. “No.” He instantly caved under John’s glare. “Well, not precisely.” He saved his work and closed his laptop, and John followed suit. Sherlock’s hands flitted for a moment in frustration. “I don’t even know if there’s something I should be jealous of.”

“There’s not,” John said and gave him a reassuring smile.

“No, obviously.” His hands flew through his curls in frustration. “What I mean to say is, I wouldn’t even know what experiences you—anyone—might have in a relationship at thirteen.”

John combed his fingers through his hair thoughtfully. “Well, it wasn’t a relationship in near the same sense of what we have. She and I went together for maybe two months. We thought snogging for hours was risqué.”

Sherlock’s proverbial jaw dropped, and his non-proverbial one nearly did as well. “Hours?”

“Well, we topped off near two once. Actually, we never did it close to that long any other time. We managed an hour on a few occasions though.” John shrugged.

“John—and I implore you not to misinterpret my meaning because I thoroughly enjoy kissing you—but doing it for such an extended period of time seems like a dreadfully boring prospect.”

John laughed. “I suppose it would be rather dull for you.” He went to open his laptop, but across the table Sherlock stood. John looked up at him curiously.

“I want to try it.”

“Right now?”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “Any particular reason why not?”

John grinned. “No, none that I can think of.”

They went over to the sofa and sat side-by-side. It all had a rather structured feeling about it, which might have been awkward in the early stages of their relationship. As soon as they were seated, though, John threaded the fingers of their closest hands together and, with his other, turned Sherlock’s face to a good position. He tilted his head up and Sherlock met him in the middle.

As their lips pressed and slid together, John could feel Sherlock responding to him almost mechanically. He smiled into the kiss and pulled back. “Are you timing this?”

Sherlock frowned at him. “I thought that was the point.”

John chuckled. He loosed his hand and held Sherlock with both at the base of his neck, bringing Sherlock’s forehead down to rest on his. “The point is to enjoy it. If it lasts a while, lovely. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t.” He brought a thumb around to brush gently over Sherlock’s lips. “Of course you’re going to get bored if you’re analysing it, especially in the moment itself.”

Sherlock nodded and went more eagerly back into the kiss. John parted his mouth and traced Sherlock’s lips with his tongue, drew it against the opening line between them. He ran his hands down Sherlock’s shoulders and slipped them under his arms and along his ribcage.

Sherlock pulled his head away. “John.”

John hummed. “Bored already?” He didn’t look bored with his pale cheeks pleasantly flush.

“No, but I thought we were kissing.”

“We were.”

“Your hands are being rather active participants in an activity that requires only the use of your mouth.”

John leaned his head against Sherlock’s collarbone and laughed. “There’s more to making out than just kissing, Sherlock.” He looked back up, grinning a bit excessively perhaps.

“Oh.” Sherlock frowned in a way that told John he was formulating a question. “What activities constitute ‘making out’?”

“Well, you’ve got kissing.” John bunched the front of Sherlock’s tee in his fist and pulled him forward while John leaned back on the couch until Sherlock was on top of him.

“Obviously.”

“Hair.” John twisted a few ringlets in his fingers, tugging gently to bring Sherlock’s eyelids low. “Hands.” He rested two fingertips on Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock licked and sucked gently on the tips. “Anything above the waist.” He brought his other hand up under Sherlock’s tee, bringing it to rest on his pectoral.

Sherlock released John’s digits. “And below the waist?”

“Well,” John said, smirking, “trousers typically stay on.”

“Dull,” Sherlock said with an exceptionally extravagant eye roll.

“It doesn’t have to be.” John brought his hands down to cup Sherlock’s arse and squeezed. “But we’ve seem to have gotten away from mouths.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said. He ran his fingers through John’s hair and kissed him hard. His other hand went blindly dancing over John’s clothed chest, flicking a button loose at irregular intervals. At least he seemed to be set on enjoying it now.

John let Sherlock control the pace their mouths went at. The genius had been a fairly rubbish kisser when they first got together, but of course he was fast learner, and an innovative improviser. He would tease John’s tongue in a way that was akin to how he teased his cock when sucking him off, and, hands-free, managed to make it nearly as stimulating.

In the meantime, John put his hands to work exploring Sherlock’s torso: skin and muscle and bones he’d mapped out months ago but could never get his fill of. When they lay in bed after shagging, or in the morning when John woke and Sherlock was actually still sleeping, John would spend an eon watching the movements in Sherlock’s body, but especially that torso. Miraculously well-defined, long before John got him into semi-regular eating habits. Even without Sherlock’s photographic memory, by now John knew every centimetre of Sherlock’s skin, every minor blemish, few and far between as they were—mostly small nicks and burns and the occasional track mark from a past neither cared to think about—every unique sinew and bone and vein.

Still, he could never get enough of it, never would. At times, especially leading up to and for a time immediately after their relationship shifted so wonderfully, John would catch himself staring at Sherlock’s torso, clothed or not, studying every breath. Once, about a month after the first time they’d had sex, he joked that Sherlock would have to stop wearing those amazingly tight shirts if he wanted John to be any sort of useful on crime scenes. The next time Greg called them in, Sherlock had nearly left the flat in a notably loose dress shirt John was surprised he even owned. John made him change before allowing him to step across the threshold.

John was still enjoying himself when he felt Sherlock’s pace faltering. He gave it another moment before pressing his head into the couch, pulling them apart. “Alright, now you’re bored.”

Sherlock looked down at him guiltily.

“It’s fine. How long did you last?”

It was a good sign that Sherlock had to get up and retrieve his mobile, since that implied even his internal clock had shut off a bit and he wasn’t able to manage a decent estimate. John was also able to enjoy the shirt still half-rumpled up his torso, and the curve in the low of Sherlock’s back until he turned around. “Twelve minutes.”

John held out his hand and Sherlock returned to him. “Not many things can hold your attention for twelve minutes.”

Sherlock put his hand in John’s. “Often those that can involve you.”

“I’m flattered.” John folded an arm under his head. “That was nice. Might just doze off for a bit.”

“John?” Sherlock said in a low voice.

“Hm?” John’s lids were already closing.

“Can I suck you?”

John’s eyes shot open.

“I had begun thinking of other activities I could participate in. With my mouth, that is.”

John gave a short, breathy laugh and dropped his outside foot to the floor. Only then did John realise Sherlock had already undone his trousers while they were snogging.

Sherlock crawled onto the couch and kneeled in the open space. He was pulling back the flaps of John’s jeans like a candy wrapper when his mobile went off. Instead of flying off to read the new text, though, he curled his fingers under the waistband of John’s pants.

“Text,” John said.

“Yes, I heard.”

“Could be a case.”

Sherlock glared up at John through a shade of curls. “If you don’t want me to perform fellatio on you, John, you can say so directly.”

John propped himself up on his forearms “I just don’t want you to be moody later because you missed out on a good case.”

Sherlock huffed, his fingers still trapped under the elastic material. “If it’s pressing, he will-”

John’s mobile went off. They looked over at the table, and then at each other. “Text me?”

“Bloody brother-in-law,” Sherlock growled and sat back on his haunches. “Bloody murderers.”

John sat up and leaned forward, pecking Sherlock on the cheek. “Go get dressed.”

Sherlock rose and stormed off to the bedroom with a flourish, calling over his shoulder, “We’re having sex tonight, John.”

John chuckled as he did up his trousers and went over to the table, picking up his mobile and letting Greg know they were on their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12\. Making out


	13. August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this catches me up from my sick day last week! Phew.

When John walked into the Bart’s lab, he was met with three pairs of expectant eyes. The youngest of these belonged to Lucy, who leapt off her stool and bounded up to him with her arms flung wide. “Uncle John!”

John picked her up into a hug, something he wasn’t going to be able to do for much longer. “No running in the lab, Lucy. You know better.”

She hung her head woefully. “Sorry.”

He kissed her cheek and she smiled up at him. Finally, he turned to Sherlock and Molly. “Have they gotten any work done, Lucy?”

“No,” she giggled and wrapped her arms around John’s neck.

“Stop stalling,” Sherlock snapped.

“It was just the interview. I may not know for some time yet.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock sniffed. “It would be unwise of them not to select you for the position.”

John looked over at Molly. “Two years ago, I’d have been shocked to hear him say something like that. Now I think he’s just flattering me.”

Molly giggled. “I’m sure you’ll get the job, John. They probably think you’re overqualified.”

“Either way, I’d rather not think about it right now.” He turned to face Lucy, their noses almost touching. “How about we go for ice cream?”

She squealed and John put her down. She bounced on her feet and chanted, “Ice cream! Ice cream!”

“Care to join us, Molly?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got to catch up on some work.”

“You mean the work you were putting off while I was in my interview?” John said with a raised brow.

Molly went right to busying herself, which was answer enough. John laughed and held his hand out to the hyper child at his side.

About a block from Bart’s, Sherlock swooped down and swung Lucy up onto his shoulders. Most likely he’d deduced she was about to ask for just that. John looked at the pair and smiled. “She’s going to be too big for this soon.”

“Hmph,” was all Sherlock replied. He slipped his hand into John’s as they walked, the other protectively on Lucy’s leg. “They’ll hire you, John.”

“Yeah, maybe,” John said, trying not to let hubris get the best of him. The position was as a part-time lecturer. Short hours, just enough stability for John to feel more comfortable with their financial situation. Not that they were doing too bad at the moment—they had an almost regular flow of private, paying clients the last few years, ever since Sherlock came back from the dead and his name was cleared—but John became too anxious during the slow times, when money was a lot tighter and a few corners needed shaving to make bill payments. Sherlock had been completely supportive of him applying for the job, probably because it was only part-time.

They reached the ice cream parlour and Sherlock lifted Lucy off his shoulders and brought her down. She sprinted up to the glass, gazing in wide-eyed at the rainbow of flavours. Once they ordered, John took Lucy outside while Sherlock paid. He watched in amusement as the six-year-old deftly tried to keep all the sides of her ice cream from melting too far down the cone and onto her hand and lap.

“Uncle John?” she said suddenly, still intensely focused on her treat.

“Yes?”

“When you are and Uncle Sherly getting married?”

John lowered his cone. “I’m not sure, Lucy. We’ve just been really busy.”

“Working with Daddy?”

“Yes, and a lot of other people come to Sherlock for help too.”

“Okay.”

John mused silently over the fleetingly curious mind of a child, whose task was becoming harder the more she licked at the ice cream in the hot sun. Sherlock emerged from the shop and joined them at their little table.

“Alright?” he said under his breath to John.

“Hm? Fine. Lost in thought.”

“You’ll get the job, John,” Sherlock reassured him.

John nodded absently. “Probably.”

Lucy squeaked, the ice cream having won at last in getting on her hands. John decided it was best to wait until she was done eating before he tried to clean her up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13\. Eating ice cream


	14. September

John and Greg were halfway through their third pitcher. It was their fortnightly Vent About the Holmes Boys evening, and the first anniversary of the tradition they’d set. Some nights their talk was more swearing than mildly annoyed endearments, but tonight wasn’t one of them.

“God,” Greg sighed. “The way they preen.”

John flipped up his shirt collar. “I’m a bloody Holmes, I’m disdainfully gorgeous.”

Greg roared with laughter.

“Don’t get me wrong,” John said as he folded down his collar. “I love that Sherlock’s god damn beautiful—”

“Our boys look good in suits.”

“—but I used to think he spent all that time in his room sulking or reading, or, hell, maybe even having a good wank now and then. I didn’t realise he spent so much fucking time primping.”

Greg rubbed a hand down his face. “I thought my ex-wife used to hog the bathroom.”

John drained his glass and filled them both up. “Never dated anyone with grooming habits like that. It’s like living with a peacock.”

“You mean I’m not married to a peacock?”

John giggled into his glass.

“Oh, god, that reminds me of a dream.”

“This should be good.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Greg leaned forward slightly. “Myc and Sherlock were women.”

“What?” John spluttered.

“Well, we all were.”

John had to put his glass down so he could clutch his sides. It took him a minute to settle down enough for Greg to continue.

“Your man—woman—had a nice pair of legs on him—her, whatever.”

“My man has a nice pair of legs, thank you very much.”

“But you should have seen the rack on Myc.”

John groaned. “Not the image I wanted in my head.”

“The picture in mine’s much better then. And you know how Sherlock’s buttons always look like they’re going to pop off? He didn’t have Myc’s rack, but he certainly-”

“Oi!”

Greg snickered. “And you had quite an arse.”

“Had? Please, my arse is fantastic.”

“Maybe, but you sure liked to show it off as a woman. The trousers you wore were so tight- well!”

They both collapsed into loud snorting laughter, eliciting more than a few stares, not that either of them could be arsed to care. They finished the pitcher between intermittent outbursts of giggles and paid their tab. When John arrived home, he was feeling slightly more level-headed, though with a good buzz still going.

“Good time?” Sherlock called from the bedroom.

John walked through the kitchen and back hall, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. “Yeah.” He opened the cracked door and in a single moment the composure he had gained in the cab fell to pieces, and he was victim to a renewed fit of laughter.

Sherlock was lounging on the bed with some scholarly journal in hand, a red pen in the other, no doubt correcting errors he found. He was under the covers, but his lanky legs were protruding from the sheet, and, for a moment, all John could imagine was those legs in a skirt and hose and heels. He fell giggling on the bed, receiving an exasperated eye roll from Sherlock, who brusquely went back to his reading material.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 14\. Genderswapped
> 
> I didn't want to get into anything too "unrealistic," so I went for the imagining of genderswap. Hope it's acceptable and enjoyable.


	15. October

“Have you ever seen this movie before?” Sherlock shouted from the bedroom. He never liked to be watched when he was getting dressed, especially in costume.

“Yeah, back at uni. Don’t remember too much, though. Far too pissed.” John twirled a cheap top hat in his hands, the long strands of scraggly blonde hair attached to it flinging out haphazardly. He couldn’t imagine going with Sally’s suggestion in costuming. Nothing but gold spandex pants at this time of year? Sure, he’d seen people do it, and maybe he’d done it fifteen years ago, but not when he was this close to forty. His exposed chest would be cold enough. “You’ve got to be dressed by now,” John called as he plucked mindlessly at the open buttons of his white shirt. Sherlock’s rather, just like the black suit jacket, all rather tight on him, but appropriate for the evening.

“Remind me to frame Sergeant Donovan the next time there’s an especially gruesome homicide.” The door opened and Sherlock stepped out.

John folded over giggling, prompting Sherlock to retreat and slam the door shut. John stumbled over and opened it. “It’s not that bad,” John sniggered.

“This is ridiculous, John.”

Ridiculous was certainly a good word for it. Sherlock was dressed in a ratty maid’s uniform and black stockings, his already curly hair frizzed out and sprayed auburn, topped with a maid’s cap.

“I refuse to go through with this. It was a childish gamble.”

John tried to cross his arms, but Sherlock’s clothes were too tight on him. He threw his hands to his side. “If Sally’d lost, you would have made her listen to your bloody lecture on footprints.”

“At least that would have been beneficial,” Sherlock grumbled.

“No, it wouldn’t have, because most of us human beings don’t have that sort of mental retention and we need the kind of tech the Yard uses to analyse things like what a single footprint can tell us.” John took Sherlock’s hand in both of his. “Besides, trust me when I say that there are going to be people there tonight far more ridiculously dressed than you.”

Sherlock only scowled, but he didn’t tear his hand away, which was a good sign.

“Come on, let’s do your makeup.”

At that Sherlock groaned and trudged after John into the kitchen. “I’m not wearing lipstick.”

John pushed Sherlock onto the stool. “Fine, but you’re still getting eyeliner and eye shadow.”

“Are you any good at this?” Sherlock eyed the cheap Halloween makeup sceptically.

“Been a while, but I had a selfish big sister growing up. Sadly, a few things managed to stick. Now hold still.”

Sherlock obeyed, though there was no lack of hushed swearing issuing from between his lips as John made up his closed eyes.

When he was done, he stepped back and surveyed his work. “I don’t know, the lipstick-”

“No,” Sherlock snapped. He got up and stormed out of the kitchen and onto the landing. “Come along, John. I would like this evening to be as short-lived as temporal physics will allow.”

John chuckled, tossed out the cheap makeup, adjusted his top hat so the hair hung limp on his shoulders, and followed Sherlock out onto the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15\. In a different clothing style
> 
> EVERYONE does Franke-n-Furter!sherlock and Rocky!John. I wanted to do something different. So here's some Riff Raff!John and Magenta!Sherlock.
> 
> ELBOW SEX!


	16. November

It was late on a Sunday morning after a case that kept them out until nearly dawn, and Sherlock was still in bed. It took a moment for that to sink in, and then John was propped up on his elbow frowning down at him.

“You alright?”

“We’ve been having sex for twenty months.” Just Sherlock being Sherlock then.

John flopped back down on the bed and folded his arm under his head. “Sounds about right.”

Sherlock turned his face to look at John. “We’ve never had sex in the shower.”

John grinned. “Are you propositioning me?”

“If I might be so bold.” Sherlock smirked right back at him.

“I’ll go start the water,” John said and rolled out of bed. By the time the tap was warming up, and John had pissed and washed his hands and even brushed his teeth, Sherlock hadn’t come to the bathroom. John went back to the bedroom and found him sitting up and reading something. John stripped off his pyjamas and pants and cleared his throat loudly.

Sherlock looked up, clearly about to say something, but immediately snapped his mouth shut as his pupils went wide.

“Any day now,” John hummed.

“I was attempting to learn whether or not our toy was waterproof.”

John’s skin went warm, despite the chill of early winter. “Well. I’m sure we can do without this once. Let’s keep it a bit simple the first time, hm?” He turned and sauntered back to the bathroom.

Sherlock joined him momentarily, stark naked and with lube in hand. He impressed John with the image of a well-trained pup eager for praise.

They climbed into the shower, carefully, one at a time. It was tight, but more intimate than uncomfortable. As hot water sprayed down on them, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and brought him down into a deep kiss. Sherlock’s fingertips danced along his ribcage until they settled on his hips.

It wasn’t long before they were both getting hard and brushing against each other. John pulled back and smiled up through the water at Sherlock. “We should probably wash up while we’re in here.”

Sherlock huffed and reached past John for his shampoo. John retrieved Sherlock’s, and after taking a moment to coordinate their limbs, they began scrubbing each other up and down. They placed kisses every moment they could, ran fingers up and down each other’s bodies with unnecessary lightness, paid special attention to thighs and groin and arse. John squatted down as he washed Sherlock’s leg, found his face next to Sherlock’s slightly bobbing erection, and pressed a quick kiss to it. Sherlock’s hands were very suddenly in his hair. John moved to the other leg, and he kissed the other side of his erection.

When he stood up, he kissed and nibbled his way up Sherlock’s jaw to his ear and whispered, “Sherlock Holmes, I want you to fuck me.”

Sherlock gripped his arse with both hands, and John laughed and pressed against him. John breathed in sharply when their pricks slipped against each other. There was the familiar pop of the lube, the familiar snapping shut, and the familiar slick finger running down his cleft. He shuddered and wrapped his arms under Sherlock’s, searching for purchase on his slippery back. Sherlock pressed his lips to his shoulders, drawing a line of red marks to his neck.

One slender finger pressed into John, paused while his body relaxed around it, and began stretching in slow, delicious circles, John buried his head under Sherlock’s chin, kissing and sucking and licking his collarbone, his neck, his chest. When he tilted his head back, Sherlock caught his mouth. With his other hand, he reached between their abdomens and gathered their cocks in one long hand.

John was always quick to crumble when he had Sherlock on both sides. It was one of the reasons John wasn’t often on the receiving end; he simply couldn’t hold out very long when he was, while Sherlock had a decent running time either way. And it was only this hard to hang on when it was Sherlock, whether it was his fingers or his prick. The toy was nice, and it was certainly an experience fucking and, in a sense, being fucked at the same time. But it didn’t compare to having Sherlock on him and in him all at once. And god he loved it, his only regret being that he never could make it last long enough. 

At that moment, the hot water streaming down both their bodies was only lessening John’s time until climax. “In me,” he gasped against Sherlock’s chest. He could taste salty sweat mixing with the tap water and licked it up. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock let go of their pricks and pulled his finger out with a luxurious twist that made John dig his fingers into Sherlock’s back and moan none too quietly. The things the man could do with a bit of lube and one bloody finger.

John managed to let go of Sherlock and turn around without his legs giving out in him. He listened impatiently for the sounds of the bottle. Then Sherlock’s hand was on his hip, and he grabbed it and leaned his other against the tiled wall. He felt the brush of Sherlock’s cock as he lined up, and then it was breaching and pushing past the first ring of muscles.

“Yes, yes,” John groaned. His hips moved somewhat of their own accord to force Sherlock deeper, faster. Sherlock’s cock brushed against his prostate, and John cried out. He put his other hand on the wall and his hips jerked. “Go,” he breathed. “Not lasting much longer.”

Sherlock grabbed both his hips, dragged himself back, and thrust. The sound John made was somewhere between a shout and a moan and the words, “God yes.” Sherlock thrust again, again, picking up speed and force as he went. John thought each one would be his last, but somehow he managed to hold out. His cock throbbed and ached and bobbed in front of him.

“Can’t,” he groaned. “Sherlock, have to-” and Sherlock’s hand was there on his prick, giving him a few swift, hard strokes, and he was coming over his hand and on the tiled wall and his vision went white and he felt gravity taking over.

Sherlock made sure he made it to the floor of the shower safely. When John blinked away the water and stars, he tried scrambling to his feet. He only made it to his knees, though, before recognising the opportunity before him. He grinned up at Sherlock and prodded him backwards under the spray. He held up his hand for soap, and Sherlock handed it down to him. He washed Sherlock’s still very erect prick with devilish slowness. Above him, mixed with the sound of the water, Sherlock was making beautiful little panting moans.

John finished cleaning him up and rinsing him off and that was the moment the hot water began running out and the tap turned suddenly very tepid.

“Fu-” Sherlock’s swearing was cut off as John took him in halfway, wrapping his hand around the other half, and cupping his heavy bollocks with the other hand. Sherlock groaned exceptionally loud and one hand found its way to John’s hair.

John manoeuvred the back of his tongue up against the head of Sherlock’s prick. He sucked and pulled back, moving the hand on the shaft in time with his mouth. He felt Sherlock tense and shudder, and he shouted John’s name in a swiftly growing mantra. John let go, flicking his tongue across the dripping slit one last time before moving his head out of the way of Sherlock’s ejaculate. He rubbed Sherlock through his release, until at last Sherlock sank to the floor with him. He leaned his forehead against John’s, eyes closed while he collected himself.

“I got some on your shoulder,” he said when he opened his eyes.

John looked over at the spot that was already washing away. “Good thing we’re in the shower then.”

By the time they could both stand, the water was a lot colder than tepid. They scrubbed off as quickly as they could before clambering out and wrapping themselves in their bathrobes. Sherlock took John’s hips from behind and kissed the side of his temple.

John closed his eyes and leaned into it. “Mm, why don’t you bugger me more?”

“Because you usually end up sucking or pulling me off,” Sherlock answered the rhetorical question.

“That’s not so bad,” John said. He turned around and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “Oh, and good morning.”

Sherlock rested his forearms on John’s shoulders and fingered the hair at the nape of his neck. “It might actually be noon now.”

John laughed and buried his face into Sherlock’s warm chest. Shower sex was certainly a nice way to start a cold, lazy Sunday, and he was decided this would not be the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 16\. During their morning ritual(s)
> 
> So maybe they're starting a new ritual...


	17. December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Meg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/megg33k) planted the vague seed of angst in my fertile imagination... Oops.

It was always nice when John woke up early enough that Sherlock was still in bed. It was even nicer waking up with Sherlock curled around him, arms wrapped snugly about his chest and waist. John closed his eyes again and pressed back into the warm body.

“Good morning,” Sherlock mumbled against his ear.

“Mhm.” In all likelihood, John would have dozed right off then and there if Sherlock’s phone hadn’t rung. John turned around in Sherlock’s arms. “Been ignoring your texts again?”

“No,” he replied, his brow furrowed in thought. He reluctantly let go of John on the second ring and rolled on his back, groping for his phone. He glowered at the screen. “Greg.”

“Bit early for a case,” John yawned.

“Hello,” Sherlock answered. “Mycroft, why are you- What?” Sherlock sat straight up in the bed, tugging the duvet with him.

John shivered and sat more slowly, reaching for Sherlock’s arm.

“Yes, don’t be an idiot. We’ll meet you there. Call us as soon as you hear something.” Sherlock was scrambling out of bed and snatching up yesterday’s clothes before he hung up.

John studied his face a moment. It was frantic, panicked, despite the seeming calm in his voice. His eyes were wild, but not with the energy he had on a case. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock snapped around, as if for a moment he had forgotten John’s presence. His expression fell into something dreadful, but the change was brief and soon his brow was furrowed again and he was darting around the room. “Lucy.”

“What?” John was just as suddenly out of bed and getting dressed. “What happened?”

“Kidnapped.”

John fumbled, his chest crushing around his lungs. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. It was like being shot all over again. The world flooded back to him. “From the house?”

“At this hour? During the holidays? Yes, of course from her house. Honestly, John, think for once.” Sherlock sat on the bed just long enough to pull on his socks and shoes.

“Right,” John muttered, forcing down the secondary clenching in his throat. He pulled on his jumper and followed Sherlock out the bedroom. “Coat,” he said, as Sherlock started down the stairs. He went into the parlour and grabbed both coats and Sherlock’s scarf. “No use freezing,” John said quietly as he watched Sherlock put his things on like they were some petty, cumbersome annoyance.

Sherlock ignored the comment and flew out the front door. Instead of hailing a cab, though, he started walking. John didn’t ask questions, just followed. All he could see was the knotted shoulders under the coat. Meanwhile, he tried to keep his own head from swimming.

It was inevitable.

John swore silently at himself as soon as the thought came into his mind. He shouldn’t think that way, not about a kid, not about Lucy. He jogged up to Sherlock’s side.

“Inevitable,” Sherlock snarled under his breath.

“What?” John’s skin prickled.

“Having a child, really! What was my brother thinking? Of course any child of his would be targeted. And then he had to be married to the best bloody detective in Scotland Yard on top of it. Because they don’t have enough enemies separately, they have to focus the attention on themselves. Half the criminals in this damn city-” His tirade stopped abruptly and he jogged up to someone on the next street corner.

One of his homeless network. John recognized the face, even piled under ratty coats and scarves and hats, though he couldn’t attach a name to it. By the time he caught up, Sherlock was already done talking to the man and finally hailing a cab.

In the warmth of the taxi, Sherlock took out his phone and sent several text messages. There were no immediate replies, but he didn’t seem to expect any.

Their next stop was the Yard. When they reached Greg’s office, there was already a crowd packed inside. Outside, officers were working in a flurry. A few looked regrettably their way.

Greg was pacing in the small space of his office. Mycroft stood by watching his husband with such a human desperation, the look alone shook John to his core. Sally and Dimmock were there as well, watching their colleague in silence. As soon as Sherlock opened the door, all heads snapped up.

“Any word?” Sherlock said.

Greg scowled. “No.” He looked like he would put a hole through the nearest surface at any moment.

Sherlock glanced over at his brother, but Mycroft shook his head. “Nothing telling, nothing even to narrow it down. It was... expertly executed.”

“We can only wait until they contact one of you,” Sally said steadily. She included Sherlock and John in this as well. “If any of you gets a call-”

Greg shot her a scathing look. “I know the bloody protocol for a ransom.” The last word fell heavy out of his mouth. He suddenly went pale and shaky. Mycroft went to him, and Greg slumped into his arms.

Despite the fear, despite everything, John felt an old familiar sensation take over him. Suddenly he was the soldier again, the surgeon, in the heat of war, of chaos. An uncomfortable calm took hold of him. “Go home,” he said flatly to Mycroft and Greg. The latter looked at him, shocked and disgusted at such a suggestion. “You’re no use here.” Even Mycroft looked like he was about to lose the cap on his emotional state. “Sally and Dimmock can handle this.”

Sherlock put his hand on John’s shoulder. “We’ll call as soon as-”

John turned around and stared down Sherlock. “No. We’re going home too.”

“What?” Sherlock sheered. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. I can-”

“No, you can’t.” John grabbed his arm and held up his hand. “You’re shaking. You haven’t even noticed.”

Sherlock looked down at his own fingers. They were trembling in John’s grasp. He snatched his hand away angrily. “I’m perfectly-”

“Attached to Lucy, which is fine.” John put a gentler hand on Sherlock’s arm. He felt the involuntary flinch under his touch. “It’s fine, but you’re not on your game.” He looked over his shoulder at Mycroft and Greg. “None of us are. We’re more likely to muck things up than not.” He stared up at Sherlock and lowered his voice. “Right now, we could easily make things worse.” He took a deep breath, knowing his next words could quickly and fiercely backlash. He held Sherlock’s gaze and whispered, “Sentiment is a dangerous disadvantage.”

For a moment, Sherlock was stunned, and the entire room was silent. John’s heart hammered in his throat. Then he caught the slightest motion in the corner of his eye. He looked down saw Sherlock almost imperceptibly reaching his fingers towards him. John took his hand and squeezed it.

He turned to Sally and Dimmock. “If you hear anything.”

“Of course,” Sally said.

The four walked out of the Yard together. Mycroft and Greg climbed into the back of one of Mycroft’s black cars without so much as a goodbye, which was fine really. John hailed a cab, and he and Sherlock rode silently back to Baker Street.

In the foyer, John watched Sherlock’s back disappear upstairs before going to Mrs. Hudson’s door. He filled her in, and then went up and took off his jacket. Sherlock was in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the mattress hunched over his phone.

John climbed onto the bed behind him, took the phone from his hands, and plugged it into the charger. He pulled Sherlock back onto the bed and forced him to lie down. Sherlock shuddered and curled into a tight ball, clinging to John’s arm across his chest. There was nothing John could say. All they could do was hold on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17\. Spooning
> 
> The thrilling conclusion - tomorrow!


	18. January

The first seventy-two hours ticked away, and not once were any of them contacted by Lucy’s kidnappers. John watched as Sherlock rotated through stages of fear, rage, and stagnancy. Neither of them slept or ate much. The only word they received was that there continued to be no word. New Year’s came and went.

John had managed to fall asleep for a couple hours, but it was interrupted at four in the morning when his phone rang. He snatched it up just as Sherlock sprinted into the room.

“Hello?”

“They’ve had the call,” Dimmock said.

John checked the time. More than ninety hours since Lucy went missing. John put the phone on speaker and set it on the duvet in front of him. “Lucy?”

“She’s alive. Mycroft spoke to her.”

Sherlock sat heavily on the bed. “What are they asking for?”

“Oh,” Dimmock said, clearly surprised and uncertain about Sherlock’s presence in the room.

John reached for his mobile, but Sherlock brushed his hand away. “John will tell me anyway, Dimmock, so just say it.”

There was a heavy pause. “A trade.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock sneered.

“No, not money.”

“Detective Inspector-”

“Mycroft.” Dead silence, and then quietly, “They want to trade Mycroft for his daughter.”

Sherlock flew from the room. John hung up on Dimmock and followed after him. He caught up to him in the parlour just before he reached his coat and grabbed his shoulder. “Let go,” Sherlock snarled, jerking away from him.

“No.” John swung him around. “Don’t do it.”

“Don’t do what?” he said, his voice cracking. “Save my family’s lives?”

“How exactly do you plan to do that? They don’t want you, Sherlock. This isn’t about you. This isn’t—” John’s voice faltered. He let go of Sherlock, but he didn’t break eye contact.

“Say it. ‘This isn’t Moriarty. This isn’t Moran.’ You’re right, it’s not. Maybe this time I can actually stop it before it’s too late.” He pulled his coat off its hook and shrugged it on.

“Sherlock, no!”

“Why not? Why shouldn’t I do something?” Sherlock faced him as he was wrapping his scarf. “Why shouldn’t I at least try?”

“BECAUSE LAST TIME YOU MADE ME WATCH.” John stumbled back. His legs gave out, but Sherlock caught him. John clutched his sleeves. “You made me watch, Sherlock. You leapt off a fucking building and you made me watch.”

“John, I—” Sherlock whispered brokenly.

“Eighteen months, Sherlock.” John trembled in his arms. “And- and if you go this time- I don’t think you- you won’t come back to me.”

They sunk to the floor and Sherlock pulled him close, crouching over him. After a moment, after John stopping shaking so hard, Sherlock pleaded, “What am I supposed to do, John? What do I do?”

“I don’t know,” John breathed into his sleeve. “God, Sherlock, I don’t know.”

What they did was go to the Yard, but only after John made Sherlock promise that as soon as John said they needed to leave, they would.

No one was keen on having them there, even less than usual, and for entirely different reasons. It was actually almost heart-warming, seeing the anxious sympathy on the faces of so many people who Sherlock, and sometimes John, had managed to piss off over the years. They reached Dimmock’s office, and the detective inspector looked up at them warily.

“We haven’t—”

“I want to listen to it,” Sherlock said.

Dimmock frowned. “Listen to what?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He knew Dimmock wasn’t that stupid, and this wasn’t the time for cheap jabs and quips about one’s intelligence.

So Dimmock looked over to John. “You sure this is a good idea?”

“Just let him listen to it,” John sighed. No, he wasn’t sure, but even John couldn’t ignore the tiny string of hope his heart was desperately clinging to against all odds. If anyone could figure it out, couldn’t Sherlock?

So they went to a room where the tape was set up. Dimmock dismissed the woman working hopelessly on deciphering it, and she appeared almost grateful for the reprieve. Sherlock sat and put on the headset. Dimmock restarted the audio, and they waited.

John couldn’t bear to watch Sherlock’s face. He looked at anything and everything else, from his hands to his back to his hair. Eventually he just closed his eyes and waited. The next thing he knew, Sherlock was asking—demanding—to hear it again.

“Sherlock,” John began quietly.

“Start it over,” Sherlock told Dimmock.

Dimmock looked to John, and John reluctantly nodded. The call couldn’t have lasted more than a couple minutes. Enough for Mycroft to hear his daughter’s voice, for the demand to be made, the threat to be given.

When the second round was over, Sherlock removed the headset and looked sharply at Dimmock. “Send your people to the Shepperton train station. They’ll find Lucy and her kidnappers in a large building, most likely a warehouse, between the station and the M3.”

John’s heart leapt in his chest, as if for the last four days it had hardly beat at all.

“They’re in Surrey?” Dimmock looked stunned. “How could you possibly-”

Sherlock was out of the seat and taking his mobile from his pocket. “Send them, Detective Inspector.”

After another half second, Dimmock hurried out of the room. John could hear him shouting orders outside as he watched Sherlock dial.

“Brother dearest,” Sherlock greeted curtly. The old, nearly scathing tone was returning, which gave John another leap of hope. “You seem to forget that, while your intelligence may measure higher on the charts, you lack something crucial to the business of deduction: legwork.”

After that, John didn’t register much of the train of facts and thought process Sherlock had followed to figure out where Lucy was being held. He sat sideways in the chair Sherlock had vacated and leaned forward with his head in his hands. He couldn’t guess how long he had tuned out the world around him, but he was brought back when he felt Sherlock’s fingertips on the back of his hand. He grasped them and looked up.

“You’re crying,” John whispered. Even for John, tears on those sharp cheekbones were a rare sight.

“So are you.” Sherlock’s severe expression cracked. He started laughing, and John joined in. Sherlock pulled him to his feet and they leaned into each other and wrapped around each other and laughed as tears slipped down their faces.

Mycroft and Greg met them at the Yard. They still had over an hour to wait, but no one in the room could hide their hopefulness. Even the other officers, who weren’t called away on duty, seemed to stop what they were doing in anticipation. After all, this was Lucinda Victoria Lestrade-Holmes. Most of the Yard knew her; every one of them loved her.

The ninety or so minutes that ticked away between Dimmock calling together a team and their return was sluggish at best, but as soon as the time had passed, no one gave it a second thought. The elevator doors opened, and in strode Sally Donovan with Lucy in her arms. The entire floor erupted into applause.

The next several minutes were a blur as Lucy was put into the arms of her parents, her uncles close at hand. Everyone cried and laughed and hugged and it was extravagantly sentimental and no one gave a damn. At last, Mycroft and Greg took her off to the hospital to get checked over before bringing her home. 

John and Sherlock looked at each other and laced their fingers together. They went home, where Mrs. Hudson forced them to feast on tea and scones. When they finally managed to get away from her doting, they went upstairs and stripped off their coats and gloves and hugged each other again and again.

Then they went to the bedsroom, where they barely kicked off their shoes before falling into bed. Sherlock tugged the duvet over their bodies, and they fell asleep together, arms tight around each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18\. Doing something together
> 
> Oh come on. They do everything together.


	19. February

“Remind me,” John said as he tucked in his dress shirt, “why is your mother’s sixty-fourth birthday cause for a formal dinner?”

“My father’s peculiar obsession with numbers,” Sherlock grunted as he fiddled with his tie.

John threw him a grin. “Because you don’t have any peculiar obsessions.”

Sherlock’s brow twitched. “At least my interests have practical application.”

“You still haven’t solved any cases where toenail clippings come into play.”

“It’s only a matter of time. Habits often allow key insight.”

“And nail clippings in the kitchen are key to me losing my appetite for a week.” John pulled on his tie. “Sixty-four. That’s four cubed.”

Sherlock nodded curtly. “Because my mother’s birthday is the twenty-ninth of February, my father deems it necessary to make her birthday exceptional every four years. This year, because of the added numerical aspect, he’s making it even more superficial.”

“Superficial?” John frowned.

“My mother—and I am inclined to agree with her on this—finds such celebrations tedious and unnecessary.”

John walked over and slipped his hands under the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. “You didn’t find your last birthday all that tedious,” he said in a low voice.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes, well, entirely different circumstances.”

John gave his arse a light squeeze before sliding his hands out and patting the spot. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, love.”

“As it is,” Sherlock continued while he unnecessarily smoothed his shirt down, “Mother indulges him far too much.”

“Wonder what that’s like,” John mused and pulled on his jacket.

“What?”

“Indulging someone’s peculiarities.”

Sherlock’s lips parted indignantly to defend himself, but John tugged his tie, leaned up, and kissed the corner of his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 19\. In formal wear


	20. March

The first time Sherlock brought up the topic of an actual wedding, without being prompted, was sixteen months after he proposed to John. John was grading exams when Sherlock said, without preamble, “I suppose we’ll be expected to dance.”

“Dance?” John looked up from the papers at Sherlock, who had his fingertips steepled against his chin.

“At the wedding.” Sherlock frowned. “Weren’t you listening?”

“I think you were doing that thing again.”

“Which?” he sighed.

“When you think you’re talking aloud but you’re not.” The corners of John’s mouth twitched. “But to answer your question, yes. It’s one of those boring traditions.”

“Hm.” Sherlock stared off at some invisible point between John and himself. “That may prove problematic.”

“Oh?” John put down his red pen and set the tests aside. “And why is that?”

Sherlock lifted his chin and rested it on top of his fingertips. His gaze focused on John’s. “I don’t know how to dance. Or rather, I believe I deleted that information some years ago.”

John chuckled. “Sounds about right.” He stood and went over to the stereo.

“Now?”

“No time like the present. Are you doing anything important?”

“You were.” Sherlock nodded to the pile of papers John had abandoned.

“Need the break anyway.” He walked back to Sherlock and held out his hand.

Sherlock dropped his hand into John’s and stood. When the music started, though, he scowled. “Bach, John? Really?”

“You’re dancing, not playing.” He put Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder and held the other.

“That’s a brilliant idea.”

John watched his face light up. “What is?”

Sherlock smiled down at him. “I’ll compose the music for our wedding.”

“Really?”

“Why not? It will be far more interesting than this drabble.”

John rolled his eyes. “Leave it to you to call Johann Sebastian Bach ‘drabble.’”

“He has some merits, but on the whole—”

“He’s perfectly suitable for a dance lesson.” John pulled at his waist. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“We should probably think about setting a date. We’ve been engaged for over a year now.”

“Oh.” He thought for a moment, as they stood comically posed like cake-toppers. “September.”

John blinked, taken off guard for a moment, both by how quick Sherlock had answered and how soon September was. “What, really?”

Sherlock nodded. “Before your classes for the autumn term start. I presume that will be adequate time for a honeymoon as well?”

John couldn’t help but smile, ridiculous warmth filling him. “Mm, I think so.”

“Excellent.” He renewed his grip on John. “Now, teach me how to dance so I can perform such dreadfully mundane duties in front of our relations six months from now.”

John chuckled. He did his best to keep focused on the instruction, but his head was suddenly and uncontrollably swimming. Six months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20\. Dancing
> 
> PSA: I know jack shit about music and dancing, together or separately.


	21. April

John forced himself to consciousness just long enough to call in sick. He hadn’t had a head cold this bad in years, and all he wanted to do for the time being was sleep. His morning had other plans, though, and twenty minutes later he was jolted back to wakefulness by the distinct smell of something burning.

He stumbled into the kitchen, ready to dive for the extinguisher to put out whatever fire Sherlock had started. There was no fire, though. Sherlock’s lab equipment lay untouched. The man himself, however, was standing over the stove cursing vehemently under his breath.

“Are you... Are you cooking?” John said, his voice stopped up from congestion.

“Damn it,” Sherlock shouted and shut off the burner. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s fine.” John walked over and put a hand on Sherlock’s back. “Everything alright?”

“No,” Sherlock grumbled and gestured to the half-charred, half-raw eggy bread. “I thought cooking was a science.”

John smiled. “Well, our stove isn’t quite as nicely calibrated as your Bunsen burners or your microscope.”

Sherlock turned to John. “You should be resting. Go back to bed.”

“I can make some breakfast-”

“No!” Sherlock rubbed his hands back and forth through his hair. “That would completely void the point of my making breakfast for you.”

John blinked. “You were making it for me?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t go through this tedious task for myself. I’m not even hungry.”

Whether or not it was the fogged up head from his cold, John was struggling to absorb this information.. “You were cooking.”

“Attempting and failing miserably, as you can see.” He glared at the pan of burnt food like he did at Anderson when he didn’t have time for his attempts at deduction.

“For me.”

Sherlock snapped around to look at John. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes.” John grinned. “It’s incredibly endearing, but, yeah, it’s a bit of a shock.”

“I suppose it would be,” Sherlock muttered. He snatched up the pan and brought it over to the bin, shaking off the ruined meal. “Sherlock Holmes can’t make bloody breakfast for his sick fiancé. Sherlock Holmes can’t bloody cook. Sherlock Holmes can’t do anything normal. Sherlock Holmes isn’t normal.” He dropped the pan into the cluttered sink with a loud crash.

John took hold of his arm and turned him around. “What’s brought this on?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, scowling and averting his gaze.

“Oi, no lying.”

Sherlock sighed and ran his hands down his face. “Nothing that has to be discussed at this moment. Go back to bed. I’ll get something from downstairs.”

John caught his sleeve as he started to leave. “I’ve got a cold, Sherlock, not pneumonia. What’s wrong?”

For a moment, Sherlock didn’t turn around. He stood, still and silent. When he did look at John, it was with inwardly-directed anger. “Why are you marrying me, John?”

“Because I love you and you asked.” John cupped Sherlock’s cheek. “What’s gotten into you? Just tell me.”

“You’ll think it extremely foolish of me.”

John frowned. “The way you’re acting right now is pretty damn foolish.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Sherlock said, his voice so quiet John almost missed what he said entirely.

“Where the hell did that come from?”

“Nothing, never mind.”

John didn’t let him turn away. “Getting premarital jitters?”

“What?”

John smiled, which only confused Sherlock further. “Five months to go, anxiety building, every possibility of the future rushing through your head, bad ones sticking out?” He rubbed his thumb along Sherlock’s temple. “If someone were to ask me, I’d say Sherlock Holmes was acting like a pretty regular bloke.”

“No, this isn’t just jitters. I mean this sincerely, John. What good am I to you? I can’t even make breakfast for you when you’re ill.”

“So I’ll teach you.”

“But you’re—”

John pressed his fingers over Sherlock’s lips. “I’ve got a cold.”

“You called in sick,” Sherlock huffed against his hand.

“Standing in front of dozens of students lecturing for an hour is a bit more strenuous than making eggs.”

“You need your rest.”

John put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “So I’m going to teach you how to make eggs, we’re going to have breakfast, and then I’m going back to bed.”

Sherlock eyed him sideways. “Promise?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, but there’s one problem.”

“What?”

“I used up the last of the eggs.”

John laughed, though it turned into an ugly cough that nearly had Sherlock dragging him back to bed. “I’m fine,” he managed once the cough subsided. “And I’m hungry now that I’m up.”

“I’ll borrow some eggs from Mrs. Hudson then.”

“Hey.” John took his hand before he walked out. “For the record, you do me a world of good.” He kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “You make me happy.”

Sherlock raised his brow. “I’m often under the impression I drive you mad.”

“You do that, too. But the unbelievable happiness outweighs the madness.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock nodded before disappearing out onto the landing, shouting indecorously for Mrs. Hudson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 21\. Cooking/baking
> 
> Because I'm sure if it was a brand new, perfect stove, Sherlock would have no problem making a decent meal. BUT SHIT, COOKING IS NOT A SCIENCE. IT'S A FUCKING SCIENTIFIC ART OR SOMETHING. /issues
> 
> I know it's a bit OOC for Sherlock, but I feel like after this long, whether epic!friendship or smutty Johnlock, Sherlock would care enough about John to wonder (even if only quietly in the corner of his mind) if he was any good to be around.
> 
> Idk man, headcanons. I'm a sucker for vulnerable Sherlock.


	22. May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Meg and Turtle for giving me ideas and such ♥

After ten minutes of running around in the dark, only two pairs were left standing: Sally and Greg, and John and Sherlock. The other dozen pairs of Yarders were off the course, probably grumbling about how a couple of amateurs like John and Sherlock had gotten the best of them. Once, when they overheard one of their victim’s comments as he trudged out of the room, Sherlock shouted after him, “He was a soldier!” The loud retort had instantly given their position away, and John had to drag Sherlock back and forth for a full minute before they were far enough off the remaining players’ radars.

Now they squatted in the dark behind one of the many large abstract shapes scattered purposefully about the dark, expansive room. They’d been crouched so long that John’s legs were starting to cramp up. He was hit with the sudden and unfriendly reminder that he was not as young as he had been when he was in fact a soldier, nor was he in near as good as shape. But on the other hand, Greg was probably feeling the same way right about now and, between the war and living with Sherlock, John had a lot more patience than Greg. That was what they were banking on anyway.

A slight shift in Sherlock’s shoulder against his told John their waiting was about to pay off. John flexed his limbs as best he could without giving away their position. 

The thing about John and Sherlock was, after more than half a decade side-by-side, even considering the eighteen-month gap, they could work together seamlessly. It had been a good match from day one, and it seemed after that night with the cabbie, it was just about getting the wrinkles out. They’d had plenty of time since then to accomplish that, and by now they didn’t really need sound or sight. Hell, in this silence, John could probably read Sherlock’s signals in his breathing alone. In fact, he probably did on some subconscious level, because he had just begun to move when Sherlock gave him the slight nudge that was the signal.

He only fired twice, and the second was unnecessary. The synthesized sound that was supposed to be a laser was quickly followed by the sound that his target was down, and, sure enough, Greg’s gun locked up before he could get a single shot in.

Four shots went off behind John, but he didn’t bank on any of them being from Sherlock. Not that Sherlock wasn’t a fast and decent shot, but he wasn’t professionally trained. The extra two shots gave John time to turn his back to Greg. Made sense. As a London police officer, resupply was a guarantee. In the desert, you learned to save as many bullets as you could because you never knew when your supply line might be cut off. Sally and Greg had been trained to hunt; John had been trained to survive. Still, it didn’t get him farther than a tie. As soon as he had turned and aimed, Sally’s gun had moved past Sherlock to focus on him.

“Draw,” Sally said with a smirk.

“I’m impressed,” John replied with a similar expression.

Sally raised a brow. “I was thinking the same thing.”

John lowered his gun. “Why does everyone forget I was a soldier?”

Greg clapped him on the back. “Because we think of you as a man of healing. Although I think the boys and girls might look at you a little sideways for a while after today.” He nodded in the direction of the waiting rooms, where probably a third of the teams were feeling more shamed than annoyed at being taken down by John and Sherlock.

“John’s worth twice as much as any of your officers in a fire fight,” Sherlock said, sounding rather proud.

“How exactly did you get him to come along for this?” Sally said, waving her gun in Sherlock’s direction.

“I told him it’d be less boring than shooting our wall.” John cleared his throat. “Which he would be doing if either of us owned a gun.”

Sally nodded slowly. “Right. Still, makes me appreciate that you two are on our side.”

“Ten years and she finally appreciates this fact.” Sherlock sighed and headed toward the exit.

“I thought he was actually having fun for once,” Sally muttered.

“He was,” John assured her. “He’s just been a little extra... well, him—with the wedding coming up.”

“Four months,” Greg said. “What about you? Getting jitters yet?”

John shook his head. “Too worried about his. I don’t know if he’s going to make me breakfast in bed or blow up the fridge next.”

Sally crossed her arms. “And this is different from his normal behaviour how?”

“Normally, I can hazard a pretty good guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22\. In battle, side-by-side
> 
> PEW PEW PEW!


	23. June

John was working on a case write-up when yesterday’s paper landed on his keyboard. He slid his hands from under it and looked at the print. The page facing him showed the crossword he had half-finished. He looked up at Sherlock, bemused, but Sherlock only pointed to the bottom corner of the page.

“Oh,” John said sheepishly when he followed Sherlock’s finger to the scratched out writing.

“Holmes-Watson? Watson-Holmes?” Sherlock leered down at him accusingly.

“Just daydreaming.” John pushed the paper aside. “Why, don’t like it?”

“Who’s it for?”

John shrugged. “Me, I suppose.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock flopped into the chair beside him. “Don’t—” He caught himself, and rephrased, “I would rather you not change your name.”

John smiled. “It would really bother you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter why,” Sherlock snapped.

John held up his hands. “Alright, I was just asking. The wedding certainly has you worked up.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” John crossed his arms.

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, and looked away.

John sighed and massaged his forehead. “Look, I won’t change my name. It’s not that big a deal, really. I was just daydreaming, that’s all.”

There was a moment before Sherlock stood up and said, “Thank you.”

“You’ll have to think about it if we want to have kids, though.” John didn’t mean to say it out loud. The words had barely formed in his mind when they came out of his mouth. He knew it was a mistake as soon as they did, though.

Sherlock replied stiffly, “You should daydream less.”

John shut his laptop. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Honestly, John, be realistic.” Sherlock turned to look at him.

“Why is wanting kids unrealistic?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. “Children? Us?”

John stood and narrowed his gaze. “What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m stating that you and I as parents is not an option.”

“Thanks for including me on this decision.” John pushed past him.

“You disagree?”

John pivoted on the balls of his feet. “I- I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought that much about it. That isn’t the point, though.”

Sherlock frowned. “What is the point?”

“You can’t just,” John waved his arms, trying to form the words through the haze of steadily growing anger, “come to these conclusions on your own.”

“Why not?”

John’s jaw went slack for a solid few seconds. Then it was rigid again. “Why not?” He floundered for another moment. “How could you possibly- I mean even you- No, what am I thinking.” John covered his face and stifled a groan. “It’s you, of course you don’t get it.”

“Excuse me?”

“These are the sort of things people talk about. Couples talk about.” John took a deep breath. “If you don’t want to have kids then tell me. Don’t just go and say, ‘We’re not having kids.’”

“It’s not about wanting children, John. The fact is that it’s not an option.” Sherlock continued before John could even begin to ask for clarification, “You’ve often told me I should have more forethought. We keep irregular hours, even with you working part time. That doesn’t seem like a feasible environment for raising a child.”

“Congratulations on thinking that far ahead, but you’re still missing the point.”

Sherlock scrubbed his head and let out a frustrated grunt. “Then tell me the point!”

“I’ve already told you the point! You have to talk to me about these things.”

“Why? Why are you so upset about a nonissue?”

“Because it wasn’t for you alone to decide that it’s a nonissue. Jesus, Sherlock.” John turned again and stormed toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Out. I can’t- I can’t talk to you right now.”

“John.”

“Not now!” John slammed the door and bolted down the stairs and out onto Baker Street. He didn’t hear Sherlock follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 23\. Arguing
> 
> UNTIL TOMORROW, FOLKS! /shot


	24. July

They didn’t talk for over a week. Even though John slept in the upstairs bedroom, Sherlock slept on the sofa. Part of John kept telling him to just go talk to Sherlock, to lay things out like he always did. Really, it was just like Sherlock detailing one of his deductions, only this was something a lot more personal and intimate. But trying to convince himself to break the silence inevitably led to another part of John to get angry all over again, because why did he have to be the adult every time? Why was it him that always had to give ground?

And then there was a part that kept ticking off the weeks and days until they were supposed to get married. Two months, and they weren’t even speaking to each other. Brilliant.

Things came to a head when Sherlock was called in on a case. He didn’t so much as look at John before flying off. He was back in less than an hour, moments after John’s phone rang.

It was Greg. John grimaced and answered, “Hello?”

Greg didn’t even grace him with a greeting. “Whatever it is, work it out.”

“Hardly your business,” John retorted through gritted teeth.

“It’s my business when Sherlock is ten times harder to work with but ten times as insistent on working anyway.” Greg sighed. “And you’re my mates. You’re my family. Christ, John, what happened?”

That was when Sherlock began stomping up the stairs. “I’ll call you back,” John said.

“Fix it,” Greg said. This time it was more of an appeal than an order.

Sherlock swung open the door as John put his phone down on the end table. They immediately, though perhaps inadvertently, made eye contact. It was still a big improvement from the last several days. Sherlock walked over to his chair, sat cross-legged in it, and resumed staring at John.

John was almost ready to speak when Sherlock said, “I assume that was Lestrade?” Sherlock hadn’t referred to Greg by his surname outside of crime scenes since he and Mycroft became engaged.

“Yeah,” John said. “Said you were being a right git. More than usual.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal grunt, and they lapsed into silence again. Then, again, Sherlock broke it. “You want children.”

John sighed and his shoulders slumped against the back of the chair. “I don’t think I realised just how much until the other day. But honestly, that’s not even why I’m mad. If we can work out a way to have kids, great, fantastic. If not, I still prefer a childless life with you. The children thing is not why I’m so pissed off with you right now.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, and for a moment his gaze unfocused. When he came out of it he said, “I see.”

“Do you?” John frowned.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied warily. “I didn’t consult you when coming to the logical conclusion—”

“That’s just it!” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Christ, Sherlock, it’s not about logic.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not your kind of logic.” John shot him a scathing look. “Not Holmesian logic.”

“And where does this logic err?”

“Your data is flawed.”

Sherlock’s brow twitched. “Is it?”

“Yes, it is.” John sighed and looked down, sliding his hands to his lap. “They want to me to teach more at Bart’s. Not full time, but they said it’s only a year or two out before they can make that offer.” He raised his head, but Sherlock was just staring blankly at him. “I haven’t said yes yet. They only called me the day after... a few days ago. I’m going to be forty next year, Sherlock. I don’t know if I can keep up with you much longer, chasing murderers and running around London at all hours of the day and night.”

“You’re in extremely good health,” Sherlock said, his mouth tight.

John tried to smile. “Maybe, but that’s not going to put off the effects of aging. It’ll slow it down at most.” He leaned forward and rubbed his hands over his head, bringing them to rest on the back of his neck. “We can talk more about that later. We’re getting off topic again.” John took a deep breath. “Look, the reason I got angry is because you just went ahead and came to a decision by yourself, when it’s something that affects both of us. Do you get that?”

Sherlock, very slowly, nodded. “I will make an effort not to come to such conclusions on my own in the future.”

John didn’t really expect an apology. It would have been nice, but it wasn’t Sherlock. At least he understood now. If he didn’t do something like this again, that would be enough for John. When he focused on Sherlock again, he could see him fidgeting in seat. He suddenly remembered Greg had sent him away, probably from an undeduced crime scene. “So,” John said with a slight grin. “Good case?”

Nail on the head. Sherlock leapt to his feet and began regaling John with details of a supposed suicide-murder that, had Greg let him stay for five minutes, Sherlock was sure he could have proved to, in fact, be a double homicide. John sat back in his chair, smiling faintly, until the moment when Sherlock dashed out the door, beckoning for John to follow. John stood and stretched before going after the madman he was about to marry. Well, he wasn’t forty yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 24\. Making up afterwards


	25. August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Meg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/megg33k), who gave me an idea I could write before bed. So I am all caught up, and this fic comes to a close on Friday.

John and Sherlock stood in front of the door, Baker Street buzzing in the night just outside. John’s overnight bag was on the floor at his feet, and he had his covered tux slung over his back.

Sherlock sighed for the umpteenth time. “I still don’t see why this is necessary.”

The corners of John’s mouth quirked. “It’s tradition.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock huffed, “but we’re hardly traditional.”

“Which means it’s extra special for us.”

Sherlock narrowed his gaze. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You love when I’m ridiculous.” John smiled cheekily. He held out his hand and Sherlock took it. “One night won’t kill you.”

“It might.”

“Only if you’re at your experiments, which you promised—”

“Yes, yes. No body parts, no fumes, no fires. I’ll just have a boring evening, just as my doctor has prescribed.”

“What you should do is get some sleep.”

Sherlock raised a brow. “Do you expect you’ll sleep much?”

John chuckled. “Probably not.”

With his free hand, Sherlock brushed his fingertips down John’s cheek and under his chin. John smiled and his eyelids started to slide down when Sherlock said, “Open your eyes.”

“Hm?” John obeyed and looked at him.

Sherlock’s gaze filled him. Those wildly intelligent eyes conveyed so much that only John could read, so much that was only there for him.

John leaned up and kissed him, their eyes still fixed on one another’s. “Only half a day,” he said quietly.

“Fourteen hours, fifty-three minutes—”

John let go of Sherlock’s hand and pressed his fingers against the other man’s lips. “Half a day.”

Sherlock nodded. He shouldered John’s bag and opened the door. At the curb, held hands until Sherlock hailed a cab. They kissed once more, met each other’s gazes once more in the streetlight, and Sherlock closed the door.

John gave the cabbie Mycroft and Greg’s address and settled as best he could into the seat. His bag was beside him and his tux draped over his lap. This time tomorrow, he’d be married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 25\. Gazing into each other's eyes


	26. September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edit: Giant thanks to Ree for helping with colours and things because I know fuck all about this shit.**
> 
> Apologies for leaving you hanging with an unexpected hiatus. Real life happened. Last week really sucked. All is better now. So onward!

The only thing John had to alleviate his nerves on the ride to the venue was the excited six-year-old who kept bouncing in the seat beside him. Every few minutes, Mycroft or Greg would tell her to settle down or be still, and she would—for all of a minute. Eventually she tired enough that she contented herself with snuggling up against John.

The venue was just outside the city, sequestered in a high-walled garden. It was small, but so was their guest list. Even including the officiant and photographer, there would be just under twenty people at the ceremony and reception.

After John had dressed, while he was waiting in the small dressing room trying not to pace or wrinkle his suit or fiddle with his tie, his parents and sister came by to give their love. Harry had his boutonniere with her, a simple white calla lily. His sister, in a dark green-blue dress that matched his tie, squeezed him tight before pinning the boutonniere on. She was already tearing up, as was their mother, who was next to hug him.

She planted several kisses on each of John’s cheeks before cupping his face. “My little Johnny.”

John bit his tongue against a retort and kissed her cheek. Harry and their mother left, giving their father a moment with his son. “I hope she brought tissues,” John said. “We don’t want a repeat of what happened at Harry and Clara’s wedding.”

His father chuckled. “I should have slipped some into her purse when she wasn’t looking.”

John glanced down and unnecessarily adjusted the lily.

“Nervous?”

He looked up and saw his father smiling gently at him. “No.” He sighed. “Yes. I shouldn’t be. It’s not like this is changing anything, not for us.” He smiled to himself. “Sherlock would point out how irrational it is for me to be nervous.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s probably in the same boat right about now.”

“You think so?” John didn’t doubt it, but he was surprised that anyone besides himself, Mycroft, and maybe Greg would expect Sherlock to be just as nerve-wracked as he was right now.

“I still know a thing or two about these things,” his father jested. “Rationality will go out the window for anyone when it comes to love.” He put a hand on John’s shoulder. “He’s proved that much to you by now.”

John nodded, his throat suddenly tight. “Thanks, Dad.”

After a moment, his father frowned and said, “Something else on your mind?”

“Oh, only everything?” John laughed uneasily. He swallowed and looked down at the tips of his shined black shoes. “I suppose I feel a bit guilty. I always figured I’d be the one to give you and mum grandkids. But it looks like the Watson line stops here.”

“Well,” his father said in such a way that encouraged John to look back up at him. “Your wedding day is hardly the time to make a decision about kids.” His father smirked, and then it softened. “I love you, John. Your mother and I have only ever wanted you and your sister to be happy. If that means not having children of your own, then that’s that. All that matters to us is that you’re happy.”

“I am.” John smiled. “The idiot drives me up the wall, but, god, he makes me happy, Dad.”

“Sounds like your average marriage, if you ask me.” He pulled his son into an embrace, and John hugged his father tighter than he had in decades.

There was a knock at the door, signalling things were about to get started. John took a deep breath and straightened his jacket. His father gripped his shoulder before leaving, giving John a last few moments to himself.

Something made him look at his left hand. It wasn’t shaking, but he felt like it sure as hell could have been, PTSD or no PTSD. He rubbed his bare ring finger with his thumb. They hadn’t bothered with engagement bands, but somewhere nearby there was a pair of titanium rings waiting for them.

One last knock brought him to the door. This time it was Molly. She had a dress that matched Harry’s and a smile so big there was hardly room left for it on her face. They hugged briefly, and Molly disappeared down the hall. John went in the other direction, down a corridor that led into the main room from the back. Most of John’s line of sight was cut off by a column. In the other wing there was an identical hall with an identical view-blocking column where Sherlock waited in an identical suit. John stopped at the threshold, trying his best to get a decent view of the room. After a couple minutes, the music started.

He didn’t need to see clearly to know how it played out, but it was nice to have even a sliver of a view. First down the centre aisle were Harry and Molly carrying their bouquets, then Lucy in a white dress with a sash that matched the dresses and ties, and she was followed close behind by Greg and Mycroft. Harry and Greg went to John’s side of the officiant’s podium, and Molly, Mycroft, and Lucy went to Sherlock’s side. Lucy was proudly holding aloft the soft cushion bearing the rings, with Mycroft’s close eye to make sure she didn’t drop them. She wouldn’t, though. She was too proud of the role John and Sherlock had given her. During the rehearsal, she carried the empty cushion like glass.

Then came the parents, who sat in the front row. There was a brief moment when John thought his heart had stopped, but he caught his cue and walked out almost in a haze, as if his body was on autopilot because it knew his head was entirely useless at the moment. He looked through the colonnade, past the standing guests, and saw Sherlock catching glimpses of him through the small crowd. They came around and walked past their parents to meet at the centre before the podium.

John couldn’t be sure he was still breathing. It wasn’t a surprise that the suit looked infinitely better on Sherlock than it did on him, but that didn’t stop the image before him from being breathtaking. Sherlock held out his hand, John took it, and they turned to the officiant.

The ceremony was short. They had agreed vows were a bit silly and pointless. They’d made their promises long ago, and kept them time and time again. At the end of a brief speech about union, marriage, partnership, and so on, the officiant said, “Mr. Holmes has asked me to read a quote.”

John glanced at Sherlock quizzically, but Sherlock just squeezed his hand.

The officiant pulled out a small card and read, “Michel de Montaigne wrote, ‘If there is such a thing as a good marriage, it is because it resembles friendship rather than love.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 26\. Getting married


	27. October

It wasn’t the first time they had a case on Sherlock’s birthday. It was never a problem, though Greg still apologised when they arrived at the scene. If anything, Sherlock took it like a personal gift from the world. He had told John once it was a far more interesting way to spend the day than listening to various, predictable, dull phone calls from relatives and acquaintances wishing him well. In classic Sherlock fashion, he didn’t quite care for the ordinary birthday celebration of family, friends, presents, and cake. So Greg’s apology was cursory before he went into the details.

It was a pretty routine homicide. The mystery that brought Sherlock in was a lack of evidence as far as a suspect went. The victim, a bloke in his twenties, had been shot and disposed of in a dumpster. But there were no recent tire tracks or footprints or signs of the body being dragged. They had already checked the buildings on either side of the ally, and there was nothing to indicate the body had been tossed out of a window or off the roof. Besides, no signs of post-mortem impact from anything much higher than the edge of the dumpster. There was relatively little trash, and, according to the waste management’s schedule, it was emptied in the early morning, leaving a narrow window of time for the murder and disposal of the body.

“I thought you said there weren’t tracks,” John said, his gaze falling on marks left by a large set of wheels.

“Nothing recently. Oh, those belong to the garbage truck. We already questioned the operator who made this stop,” he said in response to Sherlock’s unspoken question.

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and resumed his examination of the bin and the ground around it.

“What about the stops before this one?”

Greg and Sherlock both looked at him.

John shrugged. “These things don’t go fast in the city. You said it was early, right? Early enough that it wasn’t very light out? Someone could have hitched a ride from an earlier stop.”

There was a pause before Greg shouted for someone to pull up the truck’s schedule again. Sherlock, in the meantime, walked over beaming at John.

“Brilliant,” he said.

“It’s only brilliant if it actually helps us.” John smirked. “But thanks.” He nodded to the bin. “Anything?”

“Addict, possible dealer. New to the trade if he was. Signs I’m sure even this lot picked up on.”

Greg jogged back over from the cars. “There was a noise disturbance call two blocks down in the time frame we’re looking at.” He clapped John on the shoulder. “Nice catch. Guess you’re getting slow,” he directed to Sherlock.

Sherlock just sniffed, straightened his coat collar, and brushed past Greg. “Coming, John?”

“I think you hurt his feelings,” John chuckled. “Let us know how this turns out.”

“‘Course. Cheers, mate.”

John hurried to catch up to Sherlock, who barely slowed down once they were past the police tape. “You alright?”

“Fine, yes,” Sherlock replied curtly.

“You sure about that?” John bumped his shoulder into Sherlock’s arm.

“It’s simply not how I would like to spend the rest of the evening.” He gestured with a jerk of his head toward the crime scene behind them.

“You love spending your birthday on a case.” John raised a brow. “Or do you mean being shown up by your ordinary husband?” The word was still strange in his mouth. Strange but wonderful.

“If you’re implying that I’m jealous, I’m not. On the contrary, I’m incredibly proud of my extraordinary husband.” Sherlock glanced over at him and smiled.

John briefly smiled back. “So why the sudden rush back home? We didn’t have any plans tonight, and you usually prefer to see these things through.”

“Under normal circumstances, yes.”

John frowned. “What’s the abnormal circumstance?”

Sherlock stopped abruptly and grabbed John. He wrapped one arm around his back and the other pressed at the base of John’s skull as he kissed him, rough and passionate and rushed.

When Sherlock pulled back, John stared up at him from under suddenly heavy lids. “Oh,” he panted. He grinned. “Turned you on, did I?”

“Unbelievably so,” Sherlock breathed against his cheek.

“Better get home then, hm?” John pressed his body tight against Sherlock, moving his mouth to his ear to whisper, “You’ve got a birthday present to unwrap.”

A small, flattering, alluring sound fluttered from Sherlock’s mouth through John’s hair. John wrapped his arm through Sherlock’s and they hurried to find a cab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 27\. On one of their birthdays
> 
> Yeah yeah, back to being a cocktease P:


	28. November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Aeron](http://yetanotherartblogon.tumblr.com/) for the idea (Dyeing each other’s hair - but NOT for a case. - this counts as not FOR a case, right? just because of one), and [Turtle](http://yodelingturtle.tumblr.com/) for the brainstorming.

They weren’t entirely sure why their suspect had so much hydrogen peroxide hanging about his dingy flat, or why it was left in open buckets on high, unstable shelves. The man, as dirty as his flat, babbled all sorts of excuses before Lestrade’s officers carted him off for suspected arson on top of being a murder suspect.

Sherlock had actually wasted time inspecting the contents of the buckets they had yet to disturb with their heads. John promptly told him he did not want to know what had been left to soak in the bleach—he’d felt something hard hit him when the first bucket toppled over, and a cold shiver down his spine that wasn’t from the chemical kept him from finding out exactly what the object had been. He was full ready to leave the rest of this to the Yard, and eager to take a very hot show that involved a lot of soap and scrubbing.

By the time they reached Baker Street, John’s skin was itching. He hurried up, stripping his clothes between the parlour and the bathroom, wondering at Sherlock’s far more leisure pace. “We really need to wash this stuff off,” he said, standing in the hall with only his briefs left clinging to his skin while he waited for the tap to warm up. He was not in such a hurry that he would jump from the nippy November air into a frigid shower.

He waited for Sherlock to respond, and was about to go and check on him when a panicked yelp sent him running into the parlour.

“My coat!” Sherlock cried. He whipped off his scarf and held it in front of him. He stared as another pitiful noise coming from his mouth, a noise that usually only John could pull out of him, in situations that didn’t often involve clothing.

John’s gaze followed Sherlock’s to the ruined clothes. He suspected his own jumper and trousers would need tossing after this. Luckily, he was not particularly attached to the clothes he wore out on cases these days. He made sure to change if he was wearing some favourite something or another. But part of him felt for Sherlock. He’d had that coat since long before John came into his life, at least John suspected as much. “I’m sure we can get it dyed.” He rubbed his arms against the chilly air, longing for what by now had to be a hot shower calling him.

Another look of horror flashed across Sherlock’s face. He hurried over to the mirror over the mantle and lowered his head. Another cry escaped his lips.

John hadn’t noticed from his height, and from his own distraction with the chemical and god knew what else on his body and clothes, but by the time they arrived home, portions of Sherlock’s hair were considerably lighter. Nearly blonde. John clapped a hand over his mouth.

“This isn’t funny,” Sherlock snapped, glaring back at him from the mirror. “I’m sure you haven’t escaped this tragedy.” He stormed over to John and proceeded to roughly examine his hair.

“Oi, relax.” John grabbed Sherlock’s wrists and tugged them down. “Get in the shower before any more damage can be done.”

Sherlock huffed and stomped past him, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. John took a moment to collect himself so he wouldn’t start outright laughing at his husband. He knew Sherlock could be vain, but this was downright hilarious. He went over to the mantle and did his best to inspect his own scalp. Nothing near as noticeable, but there were definite lighter patches in his hair. He scratched his head as he retreated to the bathroom, collecting the discarded clothes as he went. Sherlock could probably use some of the fabric for some experiments, so John retrieved a bag from the kitchen and bagged them separate from their unpolluted clothes in the hamper.

He sighed with barely contained annoyance when he heard the tap go off. He stripped off his briefs and went into the steamy bathroom as Sherlock was stepping out of the stall. “I’ve still got to wash this stuff off,” he grumbled, reaching past Sherlock to turn the tap back on.

“I need dye.”

“I know. I’ll run and get some—after I’ve showered.” He looked over at Sherlock, who was staring into the fogged mirror with a mix of dread and rage. John snatched Sherlock’s bathrobe from the back of the door and draped it over his shoulders. “Before you catch cold,” John said in a commanding tone and pointed to the door, indicating the bedroom and clean clothes.

Sherlock acknowledged him with a scowl and slumped out of the bathroom. John closed the door and stepped under the hot spray with a relieved sigh. He couldn’t have been in there five minutes when Sherlock returned, swinging the door open with a loud bang.

“Christ!” John cursed as shampoo suds dripped into his eye. He scrubbed at it and poked his head around the curtain. “What’s wrong?”

“Greg’s at the door,” Sherlock said, freshly panicked.

John was sorely tempted to slam his head on the tiled wall of the shower. “So let him in.”

“He can’t see me,” Sherlock hissed. “Not with this.” He pointed angrily at his hair.

“Stop being a child,” John groaned. He closed the curtain and scrubbed unnecessarily hard at his scalp. The bathroom door slammed again, this time closed.

There were no more interruptions, and John finished his shower in peace. He turned off the tap and relished the steam a moment before a draft from under the door made him shiver and reach for his bathrobe. He found the parlour and kitchen empty, and backtracked to the bedroom where Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the bed, still in his bathrobe, with his knees tucked under his chin.

“What did Greg want?”

“Nothing of importance,” Sherlock snapped.

John crossed his arms. “You ignored him, didn’t you?”

“If he needed something urgent, he would have texted.” Sherlock sneered and waved his mobile at John.

John snatched it from his hand. “Your hair’s still wet. And I thought you were going to get dressed.”

“What’s the point? I’m going to get right back in as soon as we’ve fixed this.” He jerked his chin up, indicating his damp mottled curls.

“And I suppose you expect me to fetch the dye myself then?”

Sherlock glared at him, but when John just stared right back, his gaze softened and lowered. “I apologise, John.”

John went over to his dresser and fetched a fresh pair of pants. “Do you mean it, or are you just trying to rush me out the door?”

Sherlock’s silence behind him was enough of an answer. He slammed drawers a little harder than he probably needed to make his point, and a few minutes later he left the bedroom, dressed but with his hair still damp. He snatched his jacket from the floor where he had dropped it and examined it for damage. To be honest, Sherlock’s position and height in relation to the shelf and bucket had saved John from most of the bleaching material, and only a few minor spots on his leather jacket seemed damaged, all of them on the inside from where the liquid had run down the back of his neck. Still, better to wash it before wearing it. He dug in the closet downstairs for an old winter coat and strode out, ignoring as best he could the sting as his damp hair met the cold air.

The flat was eerily quiet when John returned with the materials for fixing their hair. He crept about, not entirely sure why he was doing it, stripping off his coat and dropping the bag on Sherlock’s stool in the kitchen. He had taken longer than necessary, walking to a shop further up the street so he had time to calm down. So he expected Sherlock to rush him as soon as he walked through the door. Instead, John found him on the bed exactly how he had left him, except with his forehead on his knees now. His hair, now dry, was in desperate need of a brush.

“Back,” John said tentatively. He combed his fingers through the discoloured curls, trying to avoid the knots.

Sherlock raised his head, but he rested his chin between his knees and didn’t look at John. “I shouldn’t have been insincere,” he said quietly.

“No, you shouldn’t have.” John removed his hand and sat on the bed. “But I’m glad you figured that out.”

Sherlock turned his cheek onto his knees and looked at John. He was obviously waiting for some definite signal that all was forgiven. John got up and waved for him to follow. Sherlock practically leapt from the bed, hurrying after him into the kitchen.

“Make sure you sit still.” John usually enjoyed running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, but with a layer of latex between him and the knotted curls, as well as trying his best not to miss any spots, the task was far more arduous than pleasant. At one point, out of boredom, Sherlock picked up the box in order to read the label. John immediate snatched it from his hand and set it out of his reach.

Sherlock gave him a curious, but most definitely sour look.

“You will only get bad ideas from that ingredients list,” John said as he resumed combing the dye through, now using the cheap comb that had come in the box. “Bad ideas that will cause messes and explosions I am not going to clean up after.” He heard Sherlock chuckle and dreaded the inevitable glint in his eyes.

Years as a surgeon, even an out-of-practice one, allowed John to keep everything rather contained and neat. Once he had the gloves off and in the bin, Sherlock was ready to dart straight for the shower.

“Oi, what about me?” John raised a brow.

Sherlock looked absolutely distraught as he trudged back over to the table.

“Besides, you have to wait at least twenty minutes.”

“You could have just said that,” Sherlock muttered as he began unpacking John’s dye.

It took Sherlock about half the time to do John’s hair as it had for John to do his. John felt like one of Sherlock’s experiments under his carefully measured touch. It was certainly different than the usual attention Sherlock’s hands paid him, but the attentiveness, systematic thought it was, made John’s skin prickle with warmth. He actually felt a little disappointed when Sherlock finished.

“Two minutes,” Sherlock huffed after disposing of the gloves and leftover dye.

Sitting in the kitchen, his scalp tingling from the dye and the fumes overwhelming his senses, John found the sight of a grumpy Sherlock with slick dark hair sticking every which way highly amusing. He started giggling and couldn’t stop himself, despite Sherlock’s stunned look. Actually, that only made it worse.

Finally, Sherlock quirked a brow and said calmly, “As if you can talk.”

“Hm?” John managed between sniggers.

Sherlock pushed him from the stool and steered him out into the parlour. He situated him firmly in front of the mirror before moving out of the way.

John stared at his reflection. Sherlock had been methodical alright. His hair, thoroughly dyed, stuck up in neat rows of little spikes. He couldn’t even feign anger, and he collapsed against Sherlock in hysterical laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 28\. Doing something ridiculous


	29. December

The door to 221B opened and slammed shut, and was immediately followed by Sherlock calling John’s name in an urgent tone. John sat up in bed, where he had been laying with a heating pad on his shoulder, sore from the cold weather. He trudged out through the kitchen into the parlour, and stopped short at the peculiar sight in front of him.

Sherlock stood with a somewhat desperate expression on his face. In his arms was a small, ratty puppy who kept reaching up to sniff and lick Sherlock’s chin. Upon seeing John, he held the mutt out as it asking John to solve his problem.

“Why did you bring home a dog?” John said slowly.

“It followed me,” Sherlock said. He was practically whining. The pup yipped and wriggled in Sherlock’s grip, so Sherlock reluctantly held it in his arms against his chest again to keep it from falling. It immediately nosed his chin in appreciation.

John bit back a grin and crossed his arms. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock grumbled. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“You’re the one who brought it home.”

“It followed me.”

“Up the stairs?”

Sherlock glowered silently at John.

“I guess we’ll take it to the shelter,” John sighed, reaching for his jacket. “Hope they’ll take it.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Sherlock frowned.

“They tend to get a lot this time of year.”

“Why?”

John’s brow creased deeply. “People get pets for their kids or girlfriends and boyfriends as Christmas presents, and it’s great for a few days, but then they get bored and don’t want to take care of the animal. So there’s a lot of abandoned pets and drop-offs after the holidays.”

Sherlock looked down at the wriggly ball of matted fur in his hands. “This doesn’t appear to be the type of pet someone would purchase as a gift.”

“No, probably just an unluckily timed stray.” John opened the door, but Sherlock remained still behind him. “Coming?”

“I suppose it will be euthanized,” Sherlock said, not turning around.

“That’s the most likely outcome, yeah.”

Sherlock pushed the dog into John’s hands, closed the door, and took off his coat. He retrieved the pup and headed to the back of the flat.

“What are you doing?” John hurried out of his jacket and followed after.

“I’m going to bathe—him.”

John stood in the bathroom door, watching Sherlock roll up his sleeves with the pup in the sink trying unsuccessfully to climb out. It couldn’t have been more than a month old. “Sherlock,” but John’s voice trailed off. As he watched Sherlock handle the pup while the water warmed up, his chest ached a bit. “Have you ever had a dog?”

“No, just our cat.”

“Cats are pretty self-sufficient. Dogs need a lot more care and attention.”

“I’m aware, John. I’m not a child.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know, I just- What if we get called out on a case? You can’t just leave him alone, or expect Mrs. Hudson to take care of him.”

“On the contrary, I expect he will become very useful on cases.”

“What?”

“The canine sensitivity to scents—”

“And what about while he’s still a puppy?” John didn’t mean to sound angry, but this was ridiculous. Sherlock’s attention waned faster than most people’s, especially when it came to other living creatures; this dog was just going to end up like one of the countless others already filling up the shelters.

Sherlock looked at him carefully, the pup now whining in his arms. Probably tired of being held, or had to go out. “I would request you stay here to watch him.”

John was stunned, and it took him a moment to say tentatively, “You wouldn’t want me on the case?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I always desire your presence when working a case. But, temporarily, until he’s old enough to train—”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked and looked sideways at John, his face now turned to the pup.

John leaned over and turned off the tap. “Where did this come from all of a sudden?”

“It’s a logical solution. After all, you said yourself a time is coming when you won’t be able to accompany me on the more active cases. I’d rather start getting used to such occasions than have them begin abruptly.”

John took the dog from Sherlock’s hands and pushed him out of the bathroom. He put the pup on the floor and closed it in. He ignored Sherlock’s complaints and steered him into the parlour, where he made his husband sit on the sofa. John sat beside him and said, “Stop dodging and talk to me.”

Sherlock sighed, but he at least he talked, “Do you remember the argument that ensued when I thought you were going to change your surname?”

“Yes,” John said, grimacing at the memory and trying to momentarily ignore the yips coming from the bathroom.

“Something has been troubling me since then. A question I haven’t been able to answer. A question I never needed an answer to until after we made amends.”

John threaded the fingers of his hand through Sherlock’s. “Maybe I can help. It’s what I’m here for, right?”

Sherlock nodded and squeezed his hand, but for a moment he continued to stare at his lap. “John, I don’t know if I want children. I enjoy my relationship with Lucy, though of course that’s not quite the same as having a child of our own. But I honestly can’t be sure either way. I’ve listed countless pros and cons, and yet there always seems to be a peculiar balance between the two. I can’t come to a conclusion if having children would be inherently good or bad.”

John took a steadying breath, his heart racing. “Sherlock, this is one of those things that isn’t determined by charts and equations.”

“I understand that.” At last, he met John’s eyes. “I’ve tried to think of some way to make a decision, to know, but—”

“But you’re used to working with charts and equations.” John smiled.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance with himself, his shoulders drooping. “Precisely. Look at how long it took for this to happen.” He gestured between them. “And the extremes we went through- I’d rather not repeat that particular level of emotional upheaval.”

John’s brow furrowed in thought. “When you said the dog followed you home...”

“No, no. That was completely honest. But I realised, really only a few minutes ago, that it could be a potential experiment in itself. Not that I intend to experiment on the dog,” he hurried to add at John’s deepening frown. “I have no intention of abandoning the animal.”

“I see what you’re saying,” John said with a slow nod. “But do you actually want a dog? If you don’t, then it’s not going to be a very good test run.”

Sherlock shrugged. “The idea is strangely appealing, though I’ve never considered it before.”

“I don’t know if doing something like this on impulse is a very good idea.”

Sherlock scowled, but he didn’t argue that point. They were both aware of Sherlock’s constancy when it came to any new project, let alone the spontaneous ones. He could just as potentially stay deeply invested and focused as he could wander off to another project.

John allowed his attention to turn back to the now quiet dog in their bathroom. “I’m not doing all the work,” he said finally. “You’re going to have to do some of the boring things, too. Not just train it and take it along on cases when it’s old enough.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, eagerness creeping into his voice.

“He’s probably going to be around with us for a while. You get that, right?”

“John—”

“No, I have every right to ask this. Look at your track record, Sherlock. The only living thing you’ve willingly shared quarters with for an extended period of time is me. Some days you barely remember to take care of yourself.”

“But I always take care of you,” Sherlock stated, abrupt but firm.

John leaned into the back of the sofa and studied his husband for a moment. He couldn’t argue that point. Even before Moriarty, Sherlock had always had a peculiar way of looking after John. Sure, he had gotten John into more life-or-death scenarios than John had found himself in during his time abroad in combat, but, from early on, Sherlock also did a lot of little things to show he cared. He bought John beer when he had a bad breakup, made sure not to disturb him with experiments or cases when he was ill, and—something John didn’t notice for years—Sherlock always played John’s favourite composers and movements just when he began sinking into a round of depression. It wasn’t just risking life and limb time and time again for John; Sherlock knew how to do the little things, even if he often forgot or refused to do them for himself.

“I think I smell urine,” Sherlock said.

It brought John back around, and he smirked. “Better go clean it up then.” He stood and went for his jacket.

“Where are you going?”

“To get some proper shampoo for that mutt. And food, bowls, a crate, toys. Text me if you think of anything else.”

“A collar.”

John smiled “Yeah, and one of those. What colour?”

“Green? Not vibrant. A darker shade.”

“Alright. Do you still have that vet’s number? The one who got sent those thumbs?”

“I’m sure it’s in my files.”

“Good.” John wrinkled his nose as an unpleasant smell wafted from the bathroom. “Oh god, I think that might be more than piss. Please go clean that up.”

Sherlock chuckled. “As soon as you stop asking me questions.”

John rolled his eyes and tugged on his gloves. “Think of a name. And tell Mrs. Hudson,” he called over his shoulder as he headed down the stairs, pulling his phone out to search for nearby pet stores.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 29\. Doing something sweet
> 
> ENOUGH CAVITIES FOR YOU, MEG?
> 
> ~~Okay, so now I need name suggestions for the pooch. I'm not going to do Hamish or Toby.~~
> 
> ~~**AND NOT GLADSTONE. That's a Ritchieverse thing.**~~
> 
> Name decided. Thanks for all the suggestions!


	30. January

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Meg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/megg33k) for being my porn beta. And you can all thank her for getting me to write to please her desperation kink.

John thanked the postman and closed the door before putting the two-month-old dog back on the ground. He danced around his master’s feet while John examined the small brown box. It looked rather inane, but many of Sherlock’s deliveries often did from the outside.

“Allan, no,” he said firmly as the pup tugged at the cuff of his jeans. He squatted down and tapped the dog’s nose. “No.” He could never be sure if the message got through, but Allan let go and resumed his bouncing until John said, “Upstairs,” and headed back to their flat. The less-than-graceful pup tripped more than ran up the stairs ahead of him. “Package,” John called as he walked into the kitchen where Sherlock was studying—John didn’t want to know, the smell alone at this proximity making him a bit queasy. He buried his nose into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, ignoring Sherlock’s protests that he was busy. “I thought we agreed the pungent experiments had to wait until we could open the windows.”

“Does it smell?” Sherlock muttered absently. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Of course not.” John put the small cardboard box directly in Sherlock’s line of sight, forcing him to sit up and away from the microscope. “Package.”

Sherlock gave it a cursory glance before brushing it away. “For you.” He leaned back into his microscope.

John stared at the package in his hand. The first concern was whether Sherlock had blown something up or contaminated the entire fridge again or god knew what else, or was planning to create any such chaos, and this was a pre-emptive apology. The package wasn’t big, about as big as his outspread hand. He dug a pair of scissors out of a drawer and sliced open the tape. When he happened to glance up, he found Sherlock eying him over his microscope.

“Is this going to explode? Literally or metaphorically.”

Sherlock just smirked, which was of course absolutely of no help to John. He opened the flaps and was about to put down the scissors when he realised there was a second, smaller box inside.

John narrowed his gaze on Sherlock. “What is this, Matryoshka boxes?”

Sherlock gave him a longsuffering sigh.

“Right.” John put aside the first box and slit open the second one. A plastic clamshell fell out onto the floor. He picked it up before Allan could get a hold of it and scratched the pup’s ears for his trouble. When he stood, he held the package up to Sherlock. “A cock ring?”

Sherlock leapt off the stool and snatched it from John’s hands. He grabbed the scissors off the counter and began working at the plastic. “I don’t know why either of us didn’t consider it as an option before.”

“Wh—”

“It prolongs erection,” Sherlock explained, intent on freeing the silicone ring.

“I know that.”

“Well, you tend to orgasm rather quickly when I penetrate you.” Sherlock popped the plastic open at last and pressed the gift into John’s hand. “I thought this might help.”

John looked from Sherlock to the ring in his palm. When he didn’t say anything, it was snatched back out of his hand.

“Apparently my attempts at a romantic surprise have failed yet again,” Sherlock said, sounding earnestly downtrodden. He started picking up the plastic and cardboard.

“I wouldn’t call it romantic,” John said slowly. “Sexy, yeah.”

Sherlock’s shoulders straightened and he turned back to John. “You’re not upset or put off?”

John shook his head. “Just taken off guard.” He took the ring from Sherlock and rolled it back and forth around two of his fingers. “You’re right, we should have thought of this ages ago.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Then—”

“You’re fucking me tonight, Mr. Holmes.” John held up the ring on his finger.

Sherlock gave him a licentious smile and stepped closer. “Is that an order from my doctor?”

John wrapped his free hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and kissed his mouth hard. He whispered against his lips, “Yes.” Then he stuffed the ring in his pocket. He nearly laughed at the pitiful look Sherlock gave him. “I’m going to put my shoes on so I can walk Pinkie.”

Sherlock scowled and brought the packaging to the bin. He hated that nickname for Allan, but it was his own fault for telling Lucy why they had named their pet after Allan Pinkerton. It was no surprise the seven-year-old immediately rechristened him Pinkie, and less a surprise when everyone in earshot—Greg, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson—latched onto it at Sherlock’s disgruntled reaction. And of course John, who had taken to calling him Pinkie when he didn’t want to catch the hyperactive mutt’s attention. Sherlock had finally accepted a few days ago that trying to do away with the nickname entirely was a lost case.

As much as John knew having a dog would be good for Sherlock, especially if there was now even a slight possibility for children in their future, it was good for him, too. Between John’s job and Allan, their lives actually began to form some semblance of structure. They ate at almost consistent times of the day, at least for breakfast and tea; there were only certain kinds of music Sherlock could play—softly—without rousing Allan in the middle of the night; and they had to be more strategic about sex. And quieter, which Mrs. Hudson was probably grateful for. Not that she ever complained, but there had been days where John couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard them the night before, and he felt exceptionally guilty for those times. It was like the walk of shame all over again, but worse because, for god’s sake, he was a grown man.

Well, the first time they had sex after welcoming Allan into their home really was like being surprised by an incredibly vocal orgasm for the first time. Not that they were being extraordinarily loud, but they were loud enough to wake the pup in his crate out in the parlour. The poor thing had a complete meltdown, and it was certainly not a pleasant way to wrap up a good fuck.

As it turned out, the ring in John’s pocket made him the impatient one that day. Sherlock was probably just as anxious, but he was doing a better job of hiding it than John. John distracted himself mostly by playing with Allan all afternoon, which had the secondary benefit of an exhausted pup come late evening. Once he was settled in his crate for the night, they hurried to the bedroom like hormone-driven adolescents.

They collapsed onto the bed, Sherlock closing the door with the tip of his shoe, and fumbled with each other’s clothes. When John struggled longer than he should have with one of Sherlock’s buttons, he broke off their desperate snogging. “This is ridiculous.”

Sherlock frowned. “What is?”

John pushed himself further back on the bed and propped himself up on his forearms. “We’re acting like we’ve never done this before. I’m going to end up tearing that bloody shirt.”

Sherlock looked down at his dishevelled clothes and shrugged. “Be my guest.”

John fell back on the bed laughing. Sherlock laid on him and started nibbling at his chin and jaw, resuming his abandoned work on John’s trousers. John only giggled worse and had to push Sherlock back to catch his breath. “Come on. We haven’t even washed it.” He dug the ring from his pocket.

Sherlock grabbed it from his loose grip with a scowl and went to the door. “I’ll wash, you strip.”

“Yes, sir,” John chuckled. He pulled off his winter layers and immediately started to rub down the goose bumps springing up on his arms. “Well?” John said expectantly as Sherlock watched him. “Before I freeze, please.”

Sherlock fled to the bathroom.

John rolled onto his stomach and reached into his nightstand on the far side of the bed. His hand bumped into the smooth plastic of their prostate massager. He pulled it out of the drawer and went to the bathroom. “Did you want this tonight?”

Sherlock thought for a moment before taking it from John and putting it in the sink to wash after the ring.

John smiled and sauntered purposefully back to the bedroom.

“Fuck you, John Watson,” Sherlock growled after him.

“That’s what I’m waiting for,” he sang back. He went back to the drawer of his nightstand to retrieve the lube and a condom, but he waited until he heard to tap go off to strip off his trousers and pants. When Sherlock walked in with their toys and a towel in hand, John was sitting on the bed with his knees up, forearms propped on top of them, and thighs spread. The condom and lube lay displayed in front of him.

Sherlock cleared his throat and closed the door. “Did you want to ride me?”

As soon as Sherlock emptied his hands, John grabbed his shirt and pulled him into another bruising kiss. Then, “I said I wanted you to fuck me.”

“Just making sure,” Sherlock said, breathing hot and heavy into John’s mouth. He picked up the stimulator. “It will be interesting accomplishing that with this up my arse.”

John began popping open one button after the other on Sherlock’s shirt. “Up for the challenge, Mr. Holmes?”

“Always,” Sherlock replied as he worked on his trousers.

Once they had Sherlock stripped, they repositioned themselves and their things on the bed so John had his head on a pillow and Sherlock lay on top of him. They knew each other’s bodies as intimately as they knew their own, and yet neither let an opportunity go by when they could re-explore all over again.

With Sherlock’s mouth on his neck, their bodies flush, John’s prick rubbed against his husband’s stomach, and he suddenly remembered the cock ring. He let go of one of Sherlock’s hips and groped blindly for their new toy. Once in hand, he pushed Sherlock’s face away just enough to wave the ring in front of him. “If I get any harder, we won’t be able to use this.”

Sherlock plucked it from his fingers and shimmied down John’s body. With a delicate touch, he rolled the ring down to the base of John’s cock. “Alright?”

“Mhm- Oh god!” John clamped a hand over his mouth as Sherlock ran his tongue in a wide strip up the underside of John’s cock, from ring to tip. John stuffed his other hand in Sherlock’s curls and pressed his face deeper into his groin. He felt Sherlock’s smile against his scrotum, the smooth flat of his teeth, before Sherlock started to kiss and lick and suck at his bollocks. Between Sherlock’s mouth and the silicone ring, the result was the most intense hard-on John had ever experienced. “If you keep that up,” John said, his voice strained as he wriggled under Sherlock, “ring or no ring, we’re not going to make it very far.”

Sherlock resurfaced, nuzzling into John’s jutting erection. “It’s still early.”

John laughed and tugged at Sherlock’s curls. His husband growled softly and climbed back up to latch onto John’s neck again.

“How does it feel?” he whispered into John’s ear.

“Bloody amazing,” John said, a slight creak findings its way into his voice. Sherlock nipped and sucked at the spot right behind his jaw, and John let out a full blown groan, hips sliding up and cock pressing between Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock squeezed his legs together, and John buried his surprised yelp in Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” Sherlock relaxed his thighs a little.

John shook his head against Sherlock’s neck and dug his fingers into Sherlock’s back. He whimpered when Sherlock tightened his thighs again.

“Does it really feel that good?”

John nodded. “Questions later,” he gasped. “Fucking now.”

“Maybe we should have prepped before—”

“Christ’s sake.” John grunted and tossed his head back on the pillow. “Just take me.” He looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes. His husband was smiling, a particular gleam in his eyes that could mean—to the unwary observer—anything from ‘what a spectacular curiosity’ to ‘I’m going to ravish you.’ John was not an unwary observer. Part of Sherlock was intent on learning all about what the cock ring did to John; the more present part of him was ready to start with the latter.

Sherlock sat back on his heels, his own eager prick hovering above John. “I’ve already taken you,” he teased, showing off his wedding band. Then he slipped it off and John handed him his.

While Sherlock put the rings safely out of the way in his nightstand, John started rolling onto his hands and knee. He noticed the prostate massager sitting with the lube and unopened condom on the towel and had a moment of selfish disappointment when he remembered they had intended to both have something up their arses. The moment was fleeting, and miraculously overruled by the more sensible side of John’s brain. He reached for the massager, but Sherlock took hold of his hand and pulled it back.

Sherlock leaned close behind him, his cock brushing against John’s back, and whispered, “We can save that.”

John shivered. “You sure?”

“Certainly.” Sherlock let go and pressed intentionally against John as he picked up the lube. “As I said, it’s still early.”

John closed his eyes and leaned back into Sherlock. Until he heard the splutter from the tube in Sherlock’s hand. He gritted his teeth. “I swear to god, if we’re out of lube—”

Sherlock snapped the cap closed and shook it against his palm. When he opened it again, the lube came out easily. “It was just upside-down in the drawer,” he assured John. He tossed the bottle back on the bed and gently pushed his free hand between John’s shoulder blades.

John leaned over, wrapping his arms around his pillow and slid his knees apart. While Sherlock warmed up the lube, John took a moment to focus on the ring on his cock and the intense sensation caused by the restricted blood flow. Years of medical school and practice told him exactly how it worked and why it felt as good as it did, but that didn’t stop him from feeling a little overwhelmed by it.

It was a good thing his face was already against his pillow because John had no warning from Sherlock before the man ran a slick finger along the length of his perineum, ending with a gentle twist into his arse. The wonderful, shocking sensation brought John to yell straight into his pillow. His self-control waned quickly from there, and the pillow was the only thing that kept him from waking Allan two rooms away.

By the time Sherlock rolled on the condom and pressed the head of his cock against John’s stretched opening, John was trembling and whining into the pillow. John braced his forearms on the mattress under his pillow as Sherlock sank slowly into him. His husband groaned above him as their hips fitted together. For a moment he was still, or as still as their shaking, sweat-drenched bodies would allow.

Sherlock’s warm mouth was suddenly against his back, leaving a row of hot marks down his spine. John moaned his name into the pillow. Sherlock pulled out to the head and sank back in, less tentatively this time. He did it once more before John shoved his hips back into Sherlock, making them both cry out. Sherlock didn’t have a pillow, though, and immediate buried his face in the back of John’s neck. They were still for a moment, waiting anxiously for a sign that they had woken Allan. When no barking or yipping followed, Sherlock lifted himself off of John and started in earnest.

John managed to get his face out of the pillow enough to say, “Wait.” As soon as he said the word, Sherlock started to pull out, but John reached back and grabbed his arse. “No, just—” He pushed up on his left arm, tilting them to the right. “God, much better,” he said once his throbbing prick was no longer smothered into the bed. “This thing,” he breathed. “Okay.” He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and brought it over his chest. “Go.”

It didn’t result in the hardest fuck, but with their legs twisted together, Sherlock’s hips snapping shallow and fast, John’s ringed prick hot and aching, he didn’t really care too much that Sherlock wasn’t ramming him.

There was a flash or two when John wondered if something was wrong, if the ring was too tight, because he was long past his usual tipping point with Sherlock in his arse. But his cock didn’t actually hurt—it throbbed, twitched, leaked—but it didn’t hurt, so the concern passed as quickly as it came.

In the end, he still climaxed first. When Sherlock was close, he brought his hand down from John’s chest and gave his cock a few hard strokes that brought him over. At least John had enough time to grab his pillow and turn his face into it before he came in Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock pulled him through his orgasm, and in the last pulses he buried his face once more into the curve of John’s neck and came with a final thrust. With Sherlock’s hand still cupped around his softening cock, and Sherlock jerking inside of him, John felt as if he’d never be able to catch his breath again.

The sweat on his skin began to cool rapidly now that they were no longer in motion. John leaned over for the towel and Sherlock slid out of him. He nudged Sherlock’s hand with the towel, and his fingers unfurled. John wiped his tender prick, though most of his ejaculate had ended up in Sherlock’s hand, before giving him the towel. He sat up, wincing at his equally tender rear. He removed the cock ring and immediately lay back down on his other side, facing Sherlock.

“Think we woke him?” John murmured when Sherlock got up to toss the used condom. While he went to check, John picked up the silicone ring and turned it over in his hands. “Definitely a good present,” he said when Sherlock walked back in, and he let the ring drop on the bed.

Sherlock lay down behind him, wrapping his arms around John’s torso and softly kissing his previously abused neck. “He was still asleep. That is, until I walked in.”

John chuckled. “Oops.”

“I gave him a treat.”

“You’re going to spoil him.”

“Mhm.” Sherlock nuzzled John behind his ear.

John turned his head and kissed him. “Just like you spoil me.”

“I was under the impression that lovers and spouses were supposed to spoil each other.” Sherlock kissed his forehead. “You certainly spoil me far more than I spoil you.”

John turned over in Sherlock’s arms and snuggled close to him. “You’re the one that buys me sex toys.”

“I assure you, those benefit both of us.”

“If you insist,” John mumbled as he fought down a yawn. “God, that was unexpectedly intense.” Sherlock opened his mouth, and John pressed his fingers over it. “Yes, I know how a cock ring works. But knowing and experiencing are entirely different.” He dropped his hand and pressed his face into Sherlock’s chest. “As you are well aware.”

Sherlock’s only reply was, “Hpmh,” and he settled his chin on top of John’s head.

“I don’t know if I’ll make it another round tonight,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

“Quite alright.” Sherlock kissed the top of his head. “We have plenty of experimenting to do, and I am in no particular rush to try it all in one night.”

“Good. Can we get under the covers then?”

Sherlock brought the soiled towel and the cock ring to the bathroom to take care of in the morning. John put away the lube and unused massager and crawled under the covers. Sherlock retrieved their wedding bands from within his nightstand and joined him.

John slipped his on and held up his hand. “I still like this ring better.”

Sherlock frowned mockingly. “I don’t think we can return the new one at this point.”

John laughed and pulled Sherlock into his arms. “Well I like the new one, too, so I’d rather not return it anyway.” He kissed Sherlock softly. “Thank you. Not that I mind sucking you off when I come first,” John added, “but—”

“You enjoy me coming in your arse more?”

John grinned broadly. “Something like that.”

“I rather enjoy it more as well. Besides,” he sighed sleepily, “I’m sure we can incorporate fellatio into our experiments if you’re going to miss it.”

“Mm, might have to, Mr. Holmes.”

“I shall make a note, Dr. Watson.”

John tightened his hold on Sherlock and drifted off with a fool’s smile plastered on his face, Sherlock’s hand and the cool strip of his own ring pressed against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 30\. Doing something hot
> 
> But wait... There's more? (STAY TUNED)


	31. February (Epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "chapter" after this is just a timeline in case anyone was wondering/trying to keep things straight in their head.
> 
> This is for my dearest [Meg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/megg33k), who really wanted Hamish.
> 
> (P.S. I stole/adapted with permission [Angela](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crayoladinosaurs)'s Hamish headcanon.)

The last time Sherlock had dealt with this kind of emotion-driven nervousness had been two years and four months ago, moments before he and John exchanged rings. Granted, he was considerably less nervous now, and for a very different and yet very relatable reason.

He and John climbed out of a cab in front of the same children’s home where Greg and Mycroft had adopted Lucy six years ago.

“Alright?” John said quietly, giving Sherlock’s hand a squeeze.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied and started up the path. They had already been here twice, for paperwork and interviews with the children’s caretakers. This would be the first time they came with the intention of interacting with the children themselves, though.

After the matron greeted them and welcomed them into the building, Sherlock asked to use the restroom. He ignored John’s eye roll and thanked the woman politely before climbing the stairs to the second floor. He hadn’t told John of his intentions, but that didn’t mean John couldn’t guess. Of course, Sherlock had intentionally slipped the Hawthorne effect into conversation more than once over the last several weeks, and not always after furtively interrogating suspects.

Sherlock intended to walk slowly to and from the bathroom, giving the children enough time to hopefully relax into their more natural behavioural patterns, at least when they suspected no one—John especially—was watching. He did not expect, in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, to come across an open bedroom door in the boys’ wing.

The child inside the room was around nine or ten, with raven hair that had been cut within the last few days, but needed to be brushed. He sat fully dressed on his bed, an opened but unpacked suitcase on the floor, playing chess against himself. He would make a move, and, without turning the board or going to the other side, he made a countermove. A few plays were all it took for Sherlock to recognize the strategy the boy was using—that the boy was using a particular strategy period.

“You can come in,” the boy said without properly looking up at Sherlock, though he did glance from the corner of his eyes.

Sherlock took one step into the room. “Who taught you to play?”

“My second foster parents.”

“How many foster families have you had?”

“Three.” He sat up straight and looked directly at Sherlock. “You’re very rude.”

“I’m very blunt,” Sherlock corrected. “As are you, it seems.”

“Do you want to play?”

Sherlock took another step. “I haven’t played chess in years.”

“Were you bad at it?”

“No, but I found it extremely dull.”

The boy squinted at him. “That sounds like you were really bad at it and just don’t want to say so.”

“You’re going for a Philidor,” Sherlock said, nodding to the board.

The boy looked at the board and back up at Sherlock.

Sherlock covered the rest of the distance to the bed. “May I?” He received a shrug and took it as permission to sit. “The strategy you’re using to reach the Philidor is weak, though. An experienced player would simply do this.” Sherlock moved the remaining black knight.

“That player would just lose his knight faster,” the boy replied as he took it with his rook. He looked at Sherlock expectantly, and when he received no response he looked back down to the board. After a moment, his face fell. “Oh.”

“I’m Sherlock.” He pulled off his glove and offered his hand over the chessboard.

The boy took it, but didn’t say anything.

“And you are?”

“I don’t like my name.” He took his hand back and started setting up the board again. “You have a weird name, though.”

“Then I’m sure yours can’t be any worse.”

“Your name’s weird, but it’s not bad.”

“What should I call you then?”

“James?” he suggested.

“Why James?” Sherlock began helping him with the pieces.

“My name comes from James.”

“Oh?”

“Yup.” He turned the board around. “You can go first.”

Sherlock moved a pawn. “How old are you?”

“I’ll be ten on the twenty-forth of June.”

“But you won’t tell me your name?” Sherlock smirked.

He glared at him. “Promise not to laugh?”

“My brother’s name is Mycroft, if that makes you feel any better.”

“I know,” he said with a shrug.

“And how would you know that?”

“Because you’re Sherlock Holmes. I knew that before you told me your name,” he added, making it sound rather obvious.

It was obvious—plenty of strangers knew Sherlock on sight—but he wouldn’t have expected a child to know who he was. “Do you read Dr. Watson’s blog?”

“Not a lot. They don’t like when I do.”

“No surprise. But you’re avoiding the original question.”

The boy scowled. “It’s Hamish.”

“Why don’t you like your name?”

“Because it’s old and stupid.”

“I would disagree.”

“How would you know? Your name’s Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled. “Because Hamish is my husband’s middle name, and I’m rather fond of it.”

“You never told me that.”

Hamish and Sherlock turned simultaneously to the doorway, where John stood leaning against the frame with his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“Haven’t I?” Sherlock mused.

“Nope.” John straightened up and walked over to them. He held out his hand to Hamish. “John Watson.”

Hamish took his hand and shook it. “Do you play chess, John?”

“Afraid not. I’m god awful at it. Just ask Sherlock.”

“I tried teaching him,” Sherlock said with a heavy sigh. “Hopeless cause really.”

At that moment, the matron burst in. “Oh, there you are. I’m so sorry I had to step away. Hamish, are you bothering these two gentlemen?”

“They’re in my room,” Hamish muttered and glared down at his chessboard.

“The boy’s quite right,” Sherlock said before the woman could scold him. He stood and put a hand on John’s shoulder as if to direct him out of the room. “We’re the ones intruding here.”

“Oh, no,” the matron said, completely flustered.

“Sorry to disturb you, Hamish,” Sherlock said. “Thank you for letting me play.” He nudged John ahead of him and they walked briskly into the hall.

“Leaving so soon?” The matron hurried after them, a distinct tone of worry in her voice and a strained smile on her face. “Why, your brother and Mr. Lestrade must have spent an hour here on their first visit.”

“Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said crisply.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he elaborated as he tugged his glove back on and turned toward the staircase. “Not Mr. Lestrade.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, glancing away. “My apologies.”

John tugged at Sherlock’s sleeve and grumbled under his breath, “Why are you being—”

Sherlock held his hand up to John, making sure to keep his back to the woman.

She spoke with a nervous smile, “And when might we expect your next—”

“Did you really name Allan after Detective Pinkerton?”

The three adults turned around to see Hamish hanging out of his door. John glanced at Sherlock before nodding to the boy. “We did. Well, Sherlock named him.”

“Does he really help you on cases?”

“It depends on the case,” Sherlock said. “And how incompetent the forensics team is that day.”

“Sherlock,” John grumbled under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

But Sherlock’s attention was on Hamish, and he nudged John’s in that direction. “But of course, we have to fabricate some mysteries to keep him trained when business is slow. Though, it’s really all just play to him.”

Hamish grinned and disappeared back into his bedroom.

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock said to the matron.

She started at being addressed so abruptly. “Excuse me?”

“I think we’d like to visit again tomorrow.” He looked at John, and his husband smiled up at him.

“Tomorrow sounds good.”

“Well, we don’t have- it’s rather unusual,” she stuttered, “visitors on a Sunday, that is.”

John looked at her with his most charming smile. “And can we bring our dog?”

“Oh, well, we don’t allow pets inside—”

“We can keep him out-of-doors,” John assured her. “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll see you tomorrow then.” He took Sherlock’s hand and they let themselves out

“It’s rather peculiar,” Sherlock said as they walked down the path to the street.

“Which part? The fact that the boy is practically a miniature you, or that he and I share a name?”

Sherlock smiled. “He is rather like me, isn’t he?”

John nudged his shoulder with his own. “Don’t play coy.”

“Actually, I was referring to the fact that he’s Lucy’s age. To the month.”

“Is he? That is odd.”

“What’s the saying?” Sherlock said as he hailed a cab. “You don’t choose your family?”

“Is Sherlock Holmes being sentimental?” John teased.

“Eleven years knowing you,” he said as he opened the cab door, “it was bound to become infectious.”

“Good.” John kissed him on the cheek and they climbed into the backseat.

Sherlock gave the address to the cabby and slid his fingers through John’s.

“Eleven years?” John said wryly. “Has it only been that long?”

“Only if we’re speaking literally.”

“Oh god, are you going to start speaking in metaphors now as well?”

Sherlock turned toward John in the seat. He said quietly, as sincerely as he could, “In retrospect, it certainly didn’t feel like living before I met you.”

He watched the humour drain from John’s expression, the corners of his mouth sliding down. John took a deep breath and rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Tell me about it.”

Sherlock slowly let out the breath he hadn’t meant to hold and tightened his grip on John’s hand. It wasn’t that Sherlock couldn’t imagine where he’d be if he’d never met John. He simply had no desire or reason for such thoughts. He kissed the top of John’s head and watched the streets of London pass them by. He watched, but, for once, he chose not to observe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- End -


	32. Timeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline for _Thirty Peculiar Days_ , if we *assume* "A Study in Pink" takes place in 2009. Months for the BBC _Sherlock _canon can be verified on[John's blog](http://johnwatsonblog.co.uk/).__

2004 (or late 2003)  
The first time Sherlock works with Lestrade (According to Lestrade in ASiP, "I've known him for five years...")

2009 (January)  
“A Study in Pink”

2010 (June)  
"The Reichenbach Fall"  
Lucy is born  
Hamish is born

2013  
Sherlock returns  
Greg and Mycroft get married

2014  
Greg and Mycroft adopt Lucy

2015 (March~April)  
John and Sherlock get together

2015 (August)  
 _Thirty Peculiar Days_ starts

2017 (September)  
John and Sherlock get married

2018 (January)  
 _Thirty Peculiar Days_ ends 

2020 (February)  
Epilogue


End file.
